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POEMS AND SONGS 



ROBERT GILFILLAX. 




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POEMS AND SONGS. 



BY 



ROBERT GILFILLAN. 



POUETH EDITION. 



WITH MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, AND APPENDIX OF HIS 
LATEST PIECES, 



EDINBURGH : 

SUTHERLAND AND KNOX, GEORGE STREET. 

LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO. 



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The present edition of Mr Gilfillan's work contains 
all the pieces inserted in the volume issued under 
his own superintendence, in 1839, and also a sup- 
plement of his latest Poems, selected from his 
MSS. by his friend and brother poet, Mr James 
Ballantine. A list of the additions thus made is 
appended. 

The memoir is from the pen of Mr William 
Anderson, author of " Landscape Lyrics," &c, and 
was drawn up chiefly from family communications. 



Edinburgh, March 1851. 



CONTENTS OF APPENDIX. 



POEMS. 









Page 


Birth-day Recollections, ..... 378 


Dirge on John Wilson, 






360 


Land of Burns, .... 






357 


Lines Written in Restalrig Churchyard, . 






352 


On Hearing the Haarlem Organ, 






3 5 5 


On a Mother's Death, 






358 


Ode to Winter, 






370 


Sabbath among the Moorlands, 






372 


To my Mother's Picture, . 






367 


Voice from the Hermitage, 






365 


Withered Rose, 






362 



SONGS. 

Come Hame, Lassie, ' . 
Eliza ! fairest, dearest treasure, 
Hurrah ! for the Oyster- Dredging Son£ 
I have dreamed of thee, 
Langsyne the flow'rets bloomed 
My own, my true loved Marion, 
Oh, weel I mind the days, 
The mem'ry of the past, 
The Rhine ! the Rhine, 



369 
364 
354 
379 
375 
377 
353 
371 
381 



MEMOIR. 



Robert Gilfillan was born in Dunfermline, in the 
county of Fife, on the 7th of July 1798. His parents 
were in a humble rank of life, but respectable and re- 
spected in their sphere. His father was a small manu- 
facturer, having a few weavers working under him. 
His mother, whose maiden name was Marion Law, the 
daughter of Henry Law, also a small manufacturer in 
Dunfermline, was a woman of strong good sense, and 
high intellectual endowments. Their family consisted 
of three sons, James, Robert, and Henry, and one 
daughter, Margaret. Robert, the second son, inherited 
much of his mother's mental energy and independent 
feelings, and resembled her a good deal, both in talent 
and character. In a letter written by him in March 
1848, to George Farquhar Graham, Esq., 31, Gilmore 
Place, Edinburgh^ editor of Wood's " Songs of Scot- 



X MEMOIR. 

land," in answer to some inquiry by that gentleman 
relative to the authorship of the song " The Braes aboon 
Bonaw," he gives some particulars regarding the clan 
of Gilfillan, and his own more immediate ancestors, 
which the reader will find full of interest : — 



" East Hermitage, Leith, 14th March 1818. 

" My Dear Sir, — I regret I cannot give you any 
direct information regarding the author of ' The Braes 
aboon Bonaw.' Twenty-one years ago, R. A. Smith 
wrote me, inquiring if I were the author of the song. 
In reply, I answered that the song was written before 
I was born, and that my father, then living, believed 
it to be the composition of a second cousin of his 
own, who in early life went abroad, and died shortly 
after. 

" The few families of Gilfillan in Scotland almost all 
count kin : the history of the clan being as follows : — 
Originally it belonged to the Isle of Mull ; but, during 
the feudal wars, was overpowered by a more powerful 
clan, and completely extirpated. Two of the widows, 
however, by a coincidence, bore twin sons each, from 
whom we have all sprung. My great grandfather 
rented a small farm in Stirlingshire. His only son, 
Robert, my grandfather, chose the sea life as a profes- 
sion, and became captain of a merchant vessel, trading 
to foreign parts, In one of his voyages his ship was 
captured by a Spanish privateer; but while the Spaniards 



I 
MEMOIR. XI 

were below, rummaging his papers and cargo, he, with 
great promptitude, ordered the hatches to be nailed 
down, and placing himself with loaded pistols in the 
cabin stair, declared that the first who made his appear- 
ance was a dead man ! At the same time, he directed 
both ships to make sail for England, standing twenty- 
four hours as sentry over his double prize, both of 
which he carried safely into a British port. For this 
act of bravery he was recommended to government ; 
but merit, eighty years ago, was tardily rewarded. A 
change of ministers took place, and my poor grand- 
father's claims fell to the ground. He is buried in 
Torryburn churchyard, where a massive stone covers 
his humble grave. My father wrote occasional verses 
on local subjects, all above mediocrity ; but, with less 
vanity than his son, none of them were ever published. 
— Very faithfully yours, 

"Rob. Gilfillan." 

In a subsequent letter to the same gentleman, dated 
23d March 1848, Mr Gilfillan says :— " I forgot to say 
that my sister and the Rev. George Gilfillan, arrived 
at a fourth cousinship, to their entire satisfaction, but, 
as I am no genealogist, I could not follow them through 
their dreary and labyrinthian track. 6 The Yellow- 
haired Laddie ' was among the earliest airs I learned 
under my own tuition, upon a one-keyed flute, when a 
boy ; but I never tried words to it. Shall attempt." 

After receiving the rudiments of his education at 



Xll MEMOIR. 

school in his native place, in the year 1811, while only 
thirteen years of age, by the advice of an uncle, who 
resided at Leith in comfortable circumstances, his parents 
removed with him to the latter town, where Robert 
was bound apprentice to Messrs Thomson and Muir, 
coopers. At this mechanical craft he served the usual 
term of seven years. In the above quoted extract of a 
letter to Mr Graham, he mentions having taught him- 
self to play a well-known favourite air on a one-keyed 
flute, and there is something interesting in the way in 
which he first became possessor of such an instrument. 
During the time he was with Messrs Thomson and 
Muir, his wages were invariably given as he received 
them, with punctual fidelity, to his mother. Shortly 
after commencing his apprenticeship, he had expressed 
to her a wish to save a little weekly, for the purpose 
of buying a flute, an instrument which he longed to 
possess ; but she thought this savoured of extravagance 
in a boy so young, and dissuaded him from all idea of 
it. With that respect for his mother's wishes which 
ever formed a strong principle of his nature, he readily 
acquiesced ; but one dark morning soon after, as he 
was hurrying along an obscure street of Leith to his 
work, he found a small sum of money, with which he 
was enabled to purchase what he had been so anxious 
to obtain, but which his filial feelings would not allow 
him to procure by the appropriation of any portion of 
the money destined for his mother. 

On the expiry of his apprenticeship, he returned, in 



MEMOIR. Xlll 

1818, to Dunfermline, where, having relinquished the 
cooper trade, which he never liked, he was employed 
for nearly the three succeeding years as manager of a 
grocery shop, which Provost Wilson of that town had 
taken and stocked with goods. On his return to Leith, 
he obtained employment as a clerk in the warehouse of 
Messrs Smith and Muir, oil and colour merchants, 
Quality Street, and remained with them till their part- 
nership was dissolved. At this period he attended in 
the evening, for two winters, the School of Arts at Edin- 
burgh, and acquired a general knowledge of mechanics, 
chemistry, and the physical sciences. He was after- 
wards engaged as confidential clerk to Mr M'Ritchie, 
wine merchant, Leith, and the years he spent in the 
service of this gentleman, he ever characterised as the 
happiest of his existence. 

The life of a poet seldom abounds in incident. His 
works, and the process by which he attains to the suc- 
cessful and effective expression of his feelings in " im- 
mortal verse," form a more perfect representation of 
his inner being, and give a more exact reflection of his 
true sympathies, than the mere everyday circumstances 
and habits which make up the narrative of his personal 
history ; and it is always instructive, and at no time 
can be uninteresting, to trace the first dawning of the 
poetic fervour in his mind, until it becomes matured 
and expanded into the full ripeness and fertility of true 
genius. 

Mr Grilfillan first attempted song-writing while yet a 



XIV l MEMOIR. 

mere boy, before he had removed from his native town, 
and while yet his spirit was fresh and buoyant. He 
used to relate that once, during the Christmas holidays, 
when on a "guising" or masking excursion with other 
boys, he composed and sung some verses on the lamented 
death of Sir Ralph Abercromby, an event at that time 
of great national interest, and that his minstrelsy was 
rewarded by substantial marks of approval from the 
gude wives of Dunfermline, at whose doors his verses 
were chaunted. The practice of " guising " just before 
Hogmanay, has always been a favourite pastime among 
boys in Scotland. The custom, however, is now fast 
wearing out, like other once popular and time-honoured 
observances, both of old and young. In a manuscript 
volume of his poetry, which I have had an opportunity 
of seeing, he has recorded that the verses beginning 
* ''Again let 's hail the cheering spring," were his first 
attempt at rhyme. These were written in 1816, while 
he was still at his apprenticeship at Leith. 

The romantic place of his birth, with the ruins of its 
ancient abbey, and 

" the woody braes, 

And wee burns wimpling to the sea," 

beside it, early enkindled in his soul a love of nature 
and of home, which has found expression in some of his 
sweetest and finest songs. It was after his return to 
Dunfermline, however, when his seven years of ap- 
prenticeship to the dry and unpoetical hand-trade of a 



MEMOIR. XV 

cooper had expired, that his inspiration seems fairly to 
have commenced. Always attached to his birth-place, 
the beauties which surround it, with the cherished asso- 
ciations of his boyhood, had a powerful influence on his 
imagination ; and he now began to express his senti- 
ments in song. At the same time, anxious to improve 
his mind, and repair the defects of his education, which 
he was conscious was very incomplete, he devoted his 
leisure hours to reading, and to meeting with some young 
men of his acquaintance, of kindred feeling, for mutual 
improvement. The songs which at this time he com- 
posed, he usually recited to his companions at their meet- 
ings ; and their approval encouraged him to proceed in a 
path in which he had, at that period, with the exception 
of Hogg, no living competitor. One of these, " Fare 
thee well, for I must leave thee," was written in 1821, 
before he left Dunfermline, on a young lady with whom 
he became accidentally acquainted, and who shortly 
afterwards died. In the same year he wrote three other 
pieces, namely, " I looked long at thy window, Love," 
" The Boatie's Eowing o'er the Deep," and " Blithe, 
Blithe, we'll all be merry." His readiness in conversa- 
tion in society, even at this early period, and the ease 
with which he passed from the pathetic to the humorous, 
" from grave to gay," was one of his most striking 
characteristics ; and his store of anecdote and story. 
both of a lively and affecting kind, was so great, that 
an old gentleman of Dunfermline, in whose company, 
and that of some others, he once spent an evening, re- 



XVI MEMOIR. 

marked of him, that that lad Gilfillan would turn out 
either a Methodist minister or a play-actor. The lad 
turned out neither, but held on his own course, and ob- 
tained a place among Scotland's best and truest lyrists. 

In 1827 Mr Gilfillan went with his mother on a 
short visit to some friends in the Highlands of Argyle- 
shire. The beauties of external nature, on this and 
subsequent visits to mountain scenery, appear to have 
made a considerable impression on his mind, as exhi- 
bited in his " Braes of Glenyalven," " O, the Gowans 
in the glen," " Flow Gentle Streamlet/' " Ae bonny 
day, ae simmer day," and one or two others of his 
songs, wherein he has shown a strong love of nature ; 
but his excellence does not consist so much in the 
power of describing natural beauty, as in the delinea- 
tion of home scenes and home feelings, and the play of 
the kindly and domestic affections. 

It was not until he had entered the office of Mr 
M 'Ritchie that he ventured to contribute any of his 
poems and songs to the public press. His first printed 
pieces appeared, I believe, in a Dundee paper, and 
they at once attracted attention from the genuine 
Scottish feeling and truthfulness of sentiment which 
pervade them. In 1822, as I find from a jotting in his 
manuscript volume, he wrote but one song, that be- 
ginning 

" Again let us welcome this day mair than ony," 

written for the Dunfermline Burns' club, 25th January 



MEMOIR. XV11 

of that year, to the tune of u Wandering Willie." 
From this period, having tried and found his strength, 
he went on gradually producing those sweet and stir- 
ring lays which recommend themselves so powerfully to 
the hearts of his countrymen wherever heard, and 
which soon made his name familiarly known far and 
wide in his native land. His most prolific year was 
1 828, during which he wrote no less than twenty-two 
songs ; among these was " Peter M'Craw," his mos't 
successful effort, and one of the most humorous, yet 
least offensive, satires in Scottish verse. It was his 
practice to read to his mother and sister his songs as 
he wrote them ; and he was entirely guided by their 
judgment regarding them. He used to say that the 
first idea of fame which he ever entertained was when 
his sister and a young lady, a cousin of his own, wept 
on hearing him read his pathetic " Fare thee well, for 
I must leave thee ! " Although he never married, he 
was not insensible to the charms of female beauty and 
female worth ; and his love-songs are as remarkable 
for tenderness and simplicity as for moral purity and 
just sentiment. The latter characteristics indeed dis- 
tinguish all his pieces. 

Previous to their appearing in a collected form, his 
songs had become popular all over the kingdom, and he 
had been quoted occasionally, for a song or a ballad, by 
the Ettrick Shepherd in the celebrated " Noctes Ambro- 
siause" of " Blackwood's Magazine," as the u fine chield 
down at Leith." Encouraged by this, and urged by many 



XV111 MEMOIR. 

of his friends and admirers, he produced, in 1831, a 
volume of about a hundred and fifty pages, entitled 
"Original Songs," which he dedicated to Allan Cunning- 
ham. Its merits were at once acknowledged ; and Mr 
Gilfillan was hailed as worthy to be the successor to the 
lyre of Ramsay, Fergusson, Burns, Tannahill, and Hogg. 
He himself preferred his claims to be considered as a 
Scottish poet with the utmost modesty. " Had my 
education," he said in the preface, " been better than it 
is, this little work would probably have presented 
fewer inelegancies of language, and fewer violations of 
grammar." These, however, were trivial : and the 
book speedily secured for itself a circulation. The 
great charm of his pieces was found to consist in that 
combination of purity of feeling, graceful ease of ex- 
pression, tenderness and natural simplicity, with a 
pleasant vein of quiet humour, which was peculiarly 
his own. Added to all this, as one critic well remarked 
at the time, most of his songs tell a story, convey a 
moral, or illustrate some leading idea, a requisite as 
essential to a good song as to a good sonnet, which 
we have Boileau's authority for valuing at the same 
rate as a long epic poem. The secret of his power as 
a song-writer, as it was that of Burns, was that he 
sought only to express natural thoughts in natural 
language, that he wrote from his own feelings, in- 
spirations, and impulses, and that his verses appeal 
directly to the universal feelings and sympathies of our 
nature. 



MEMOIR. XIX 

The success of this first adventure emboldened him 
to publish, in 1835, an enlarged edition of his songs, 
with fifty additional pieces. Soon after its publication 
he was entertained at a public dinner in the Royal 
Exchange Coffee-house, Edinburgh, when a splendid 
silver cup was presented to him, bearing the inscription, 
f* Presented to Mr Robert Gilfiilan, by the admirers of 
native genius, in token of their high estimation of his 
poetical talents and private worth. Edinburgh, 1835." 
On an occasion so honourable to Mr Gilfiilan, eighty 
gentlemen, some of them from a distance, sat down to 
dinner. Mr Peter M'Leod, the composer of the music 
of some of Mr Gilfillan's finest songs, was chairman, 
and Bailie Yeitch, of Leith, officiated as croupier. In 
proposing Mr Gilfillan's health, Mr M'Leod remarked 
that the contributions which he had already furnished 
to our stock of Scottish lyrical poetry, had placed him 
high in the estimation of his countrymen ; and he pre- 
dicted farther successful lyrics from his pen, which 
would increase and extend his fame. On returning 
thanks, Mr Gilfiilan stated, that although early em- 
bued with the love of minstrelsy, he had made 
poetry a pastime, not a profession, — a wand to play 
with, not a crutch to lean upon — and that he would 
rather forego the fame of the poet, than do anything to 
lower the character of the man. The goblet presented 
to him on this occasion is a massive and handsome 
cup. Its upper circumference bears, at different points, 
the Gilfiilan arms, a national device, and a wreath of 



XX MEMOIR. 

bay leaves encircling the inscription, the whole splen- 
didly embossed. 

In the year 1837 Mr Gilfillan was appointed collec- 
tor of the Police rates at Leith, the duties of which 
office he continued to discharge with the utmost fidelity, 
and to the satisfaction of his more immediate superiors, 
during the remainder of his life. On St Andrews' day 
(30th November) of the same year, he was, on the 
motion of the late Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, Baronet, 
appointed to the honourable position of Grand Bard to 
the Grand Lodge of Free Masons in Scotland, an 
office which was originally created for and filled by 
Robert Burns. He was also, for a number of years, 
president of the Ayrshire Burns' club, and wrote several 
appropriate anniversary songs to the memory of our 
national bard. 

In 1839 a third and larger collection of his volume 
appeared, with sixty additional songs. In his later 
years he contributed several excellent pieces to the 
" Dublin University Magazine," and other popular 
periodicals. For a period of twenty years he sent to 
the " Scotsman " newspaper, the chief portion of its 
Leith news, and other communications in prose. Many 
of his songs were inserted in that and other Edinburgh 
newspapers. He was for a long time also the theatrical 
critic of the " Edinburgh Chronicle." 

Mr Gilfillan four times paid a visit to the Continent; 
but his attachment to home was so great, that he was 
restless and unhappy all the time he was away. On 



MEMOIR. XXI 

one of these occasions, he returned to Scotland in the 
same ship which had taken him to Hamburgh, because 
he missed the " old familiar faces " of his friends and 
relations from beside him. His feelings on an occasion 
like this are admirably expressed in his own beautiful 
and pathetic emigrant's song, " 0, why left I my 
hame f " His fondly cherished remembrance of the 
days and the scenes of his boyhood, which was one of 
the most marked characteristics of his mind, is well 
expressed in many of his pieces, as well as in the fol- 
lowing song, to the tune of " Good night, and joy be wi' 
ye a'," which he wrote for the " Alloa Advertiser," 
to which he contributed several pieces. 



SONG. 

Tune — Good night, and joy be w€ ye a\ — (Old Set.) 

Dunfermline town, — wi' woody braes 

And wee burns wimpling to the sea — 
Frae fair Edina's heights I gaze, 

My native place, ance mair on thee ! 
And mind the days when hearts were young 

And bosoms bounding wild and free ; 
When blithest sangs were blithely sung, 

An' a' was mirth, an' a' was glee ! 

The braes whaur waved the yellow broom, 
An' wild flowers grew in beauty fair, 

I clamb wi' those, then in their bloom, 
That now, alas ! I see nae mair ! 



XXII MEMOIR. 

The bank, the bower, the streamlet clear, 
We wander'd by the lee-lang day, 

Nor thought the time would bring the tear 
For friends departed, years away ! 

Thy Abbey wa's, time-honoured now, 

Clad wi' the climbing ivy green, 
In mouldVing ruin, mind me how 

Their sacred haunts, were ours, I ween ! 
Or did we change the sportive scene, 

"We westward took our wanderiDg way 
To where the Forth comes in between 

The Southern shore and Alloa ! 

In foreign lands I've journey M wide, 

And noble cities looked upon ! 
Where towers lift up their heads in pride, 

The highest that the sun shines on ! 
But, as the bright sun to the flower, 

As moorland bloom is to the bee, 
Or, to the green-rob'd earth, the shower, 

Dunfermline town, thoifrt dear to me ! 






Mr Gilfillan lost his father on 30th April 1834, and 
on the 8th of January 1844. his mother died, at the age 
of seventy-three years and eight months, having been 
born 1st May 1770. In the " Witness " newspaper of 
the 13th January appeared the following well deserved 
obituary notice of that event : — " At 65, Constitution 
Street, Leith, on the 8th inst., Mrs Gilfillan, aged 
seventy-three years, the mother of the well-known poet 
of the same name. She was a woman of high intellec- 
tual powers, and one who, belonging to the middle 



MEMOIR. XX1U 

classes of society, was distinguished by high literary 
acquirements, united to a modesty that rather fostered 
the talents of others than exhibited her own. In Chris- 
tianity, unostentatious ; in benevolence, unbounded ; 
and in charity, unwearied, she, as far as human weak- 
ness must be taken into account, displayed a perfect 
model of female character." 

A more graceful and affectionate tribute to her me- 
mory was the following letter, which the poet himself 
addressed, on the 13th of the same month, to the editor 
of the " Alloa Advertiser : " — 

" Leith, 13th January 1844. 

" My Dear Sir, — On the day I wrote for you the 
little song, to wit, the 2d inst., my dear mother was in 
good health, and all her faculties in perfect vigour, and 
on the day your kind note and ' Advertiser ' came, the 
8th, she was sleeping the sleep of death ! — a sad event 
to a sorrowing family, and to me a blow that yet I can 
scarcely bear under, for if I hold any literary honour 
at all, I owe it to the early mental culture, the fine 
taste and strong intellect, of that excellent woman. Few 
in her sphere of life possessed so many acquirements, 
and the whole were deepened or modified by a pure 
spirit of genuine piety. Excuse this notice of one you 
never saw ; but my heart is too full to keep it back." 

On the 25th of June 1849, his sister died ; and he 
was very sensibly affected by her death. As a farther 



XXIV MEMOIR. 

illustration of the strength of his domestic affections, 
his niece, Miss Marion Law Gilnllan, the daughter of 
his brother James, constantly resided with him, from 
her childhood till his death; and on* two occasions ac- 
companied him on his excursions to the Continent. 

In April 1850, Mr Gilnllan, anxious to have the 
monument to Robert Fergusson's memory, erected by 
Robert Burns, in the Canongate churchyard, repaired, 
which it very much required, originated a subscription 
for that purpose, and was successful in an object which 
he had so much at heart. His own career was now 
fast drawing to a close. On Monday the 2d of Decem- 
ber of that year, he was present at the dinner of the 
Grand Lodge of Scotland, at Edinburgh, on which oc- 
casion he sung some of his own songs, and appeared 
to be in his usual health. On the following day, he 
was well enough to be out of doors ; but during the 
evening he complained of a headache, and kept at 
home. On Wednesday morning he rose at his usual 
hour, but soon after, about eight o'clock, he fell down 
in a fit of apoplexy, in his own breakfast parlour, in 
Hermitage Place, Leith Links. He was conveyed 
back to bed, and medical aid immediately procured ; 
but, though he rallied for a short time, and was able to 
converse and give some directions, a second fit came on, 
of which he died about eleven o'clock on that day, the 
4th of December 1850, aged fifty-two. His remains 
were accompanied to the churchyard of South Leith by 
a numerous and respectable company of friends ; and a 



MEMOIR. XXV 

monument to his memory is about to be raised, by 
public subscription, on the spot where all that is mortal 
of him is laid. 

In private life, Mr Gilfillan was universally esteemed 
by all who knew him. In disposition he was kind, 
generous, and benevolent, and in manners simple, 
affable, and unobtrusive. His friendly and social 
qualities caused his society to be greatly courted, and 
as he sung his own songs, in a style which never failed 
to charm all who ever heard him, his company was 
often but too much sought after on convivial occasions, 
when his own habits and inclinations would have in- 
clined him to forego them. He had won the respect 
and affection of his literary contemporaries, and had a 
large acquaintance and correspondence with many of 
the most eminent men of the day. 

The peculiar place occupied by Eobert Gilfillan as a 
poet, is already indicated in the brief sketch given of his 
life. His intense love of home and of his family circle, 
as embodied in many of his best songs, and to which 
I have already incidentally referred, strikingly evinces 
that, in this range at least, he possessed a clearness and 
strength of vision superior to any of his contempor- 
aries, in whatever light his merits as a poet, in other 
respects, may be regarded. Accordingly, his " Happy 
days of youth," in point of truthfulness and natural 
beauty, has not been surpassed in lyric poetry in modern 
days ; and his " Emigrant's Song," already mentioned, 
will live as long as the language endures. These two 



XXVI MEMOIR. * 

lyrics, indeed, present different phases of the' sentiment 
for home in so striking a point of view, blended with 
imagery so natural and appropriate, that, of themselves, 
they were sufficient to have stamped their author as a 
true poet. His " Peter M'Craw," perhaps the most 
original of all his songs, is a representation of a differ- 
ent aspect of the same sentiment. Though written on 
a real person, it was not meant to apply to any parti- 
cular individual, but expressed the author's feelings at 
the invasion of home by a tax-gatherer rigorous in the 
discharge of his duty, and is decidedly one of the most 
vigorous satires that has been written in the Scottish 
dialect since the days of Sir David Lindsay. The rest 
of Gilfillan's poetry is coloured, more or less, by the 
rich and deep hues of his attachment for home, which 
pervaded and gave a tone to all his feelings. In this 
respect, indeed, his songs may be regarded as the most 
truthful and graphic illustration of this characteristic 
in Scottish sentiment and manners, and his happiest 
efforts in this direction will stand comparison with 
those of the best song writers on the same subject in 
any language. 

From the earliest period, Scotland has been remark- 
able for the excellence of her lyrical poetry, a circum- 
stance which springs, not from any mere mannerism of 
thought or form of verse, but from the inherent charac- 
teristics of her people. While our neighbours, the 
English, are distinguished for their broad universal 
sympathies, which are sufficiently shown in their man- 



MEMOIR. XXVll 

ners and customs, and in the large compass of thought 
of their dramatic and epic writers, the Scotch are more 
remarkable for the strength of their domestic affections, 
and kindly and social feelings : which are appropri- 
ately represented in the depth and pathos of their 
lyric poetry. Hence no nation can boast of as many 
songs as Scotland. For centuries before the time of 
Burns, her people possessed ballads, songs, and melodies, 
which, in delicacy and genuineness of feeling, are not 
excelled by those of any other nation in the world. But 
her poetic range was never large nor universal. Even 
Burns, with all his gigantic power of thought and ex- 
pression, never travels beyond the simply lyrical ; but 
in this department he is so truly great, that, in point 
of strength, he must actually be ranked among the epic 
writers. As the oak is dwarfed by the thinness of the 
soil and the chillness of the atmosphere around it, so 
was Burns by the feelings and manners characteristic 
of his countrymen. In England he might have been a 
great dramatic writer, but born and educated in Scot- 
land, his fine spirit became a mirror only of the national 
peculiarities of her people. To use his own words, he 
tuned " his wild artless notes, and sung the loves, the 
joys, the rural scenes, and rural pleasures of his native 
soil, in his native tongue," and, in this province of 
poetry, he has never been, and is never likely to be, 
equalled or surpassed. 

All other Scottish poets, ancient and modern, possess 
only a limited and prescribed range of vision in the 



XXV111 MEMOIR. 

poetic circle. Burns's predecessors, Ramsay and Fer- 
gusson, can be regarded in no higher light than simply 
as truthful delineators of external manners. His con- 
temporary, Tannahill, is chiefly remarkable for his 
exquisitely beautiful descriptions of Scottish scenery, 
mingled with appropriate allusions to the human sym- 
pathies which these awaken. Hogg chiefly exhibits 
vividly in verse the local manners and customs of his 
own part of the country, the south of Scotland, with 
occasionally the manifestation of a delicate sense of the 
supernatural, as in " Bonny Kilmeny." Robert Gil- 
Allan fills a place in Scottish poetry altogether different 
and distinct from any of these, the acknowledged 
masters of Scottish song. He is certainly not so 
universal as Burns, nor so broad and graphic a de- 
lineator of Scottish manners as Ramsay, Fergusson, or 
Hogg, nor is he so keenly alive to the beauties of ex- 
ternal nature as Robert Tannahill ; but, in his own 
peculiar walk, that of home and the domestic affections, 
he has shown a command of happy thought and ima- 
gery, in which it may be truly said, that he has not 
been excelled, as a poet of nature, by any of his pre- 
decessors, with the exception only of Burns himself. 

W. A. 






TRIBUTARY PIECES. XXIX 



0$ THE DEATH OF ROBERT GILFILLAN. 

Farewell, my old, my early friend, 

A long-, a last farewell — 
On all the mem'ries now recalled 

What need that I should dwell ? 

But when I look, in pensive mood, 

Back through the mist of years, 
The thoughts of happy hours long past 

Unseal the fount of tears. 

Of gentle nature, guileless heart, 

The love of all was thine, 
And long, with deep and fond regrets, 

Thy mem tv shall entwine. 

To thee, and with no niggard hand, 

Was given the pow'r of song, 
The power to touch the finer chords 

That to the heart belong. 

No passions fierce, no thoughts that lead 

The wav*ring mind astray, 
Were themes of thine. Pure feeling still 

Breath'd through thy simple lay. 

No barren heights ye sought to reach, 

On vain ambitious wing, 
But wert content of homely things, 

In homely strains, to sing. 

Farewell, again, departed friend ; 

Again, a long farewell — 
Of all the mem'ries now recalled, 

What need that I should tell ? 

Alexander Campbell. 



XXX TRIBUTARY PIECES. 



LAMENT FOR ROBERT GILFILLAX. 

O mourn, Scotland, mourn, for thy sweet poet gane, 
Thy children, far distant, shall swell the sad strain : 
By hearth and by homestead, in cottage and ha', 
Are lorn hearts deploring poor Robin awa'. 

"Where glen-burnies wimple, where hill-torrents flow, 
TV'here gowden whins blossom, and strong thistles grow, 
Where merles greet the gloamin', and larks hail the daw ? , 
They've lost their fond lover, poor Robin awa'. 

Old age totters feebly, and youth paces slow, 
They linger, to mourn o'er their bard lying low, 
"While angel tears hallow the turf, as they fa' 
Frae beauty's eyes streaming, for Robin awa'. 

O genial the feeling his mem'ry imparts, 

For deeply his lyrics are shrined in our hearts, 

And rich as the fragrance when southlan' winds blaw, 

The flower posie left us by Robin awa'. 

James Ballaxtine. 



POEMS AND SONGS. 



SONGS. 



IN THE DAYS O' LANGSYNE. 



In the days o' langsyne, when we carles were young, 
An 5 nae Foreign fashions amang us had sprung ; 
When we made our ain bannocks, and brewed our 

ain yill, 
An' were clad frae the sheep that gaed white on the 

hill; 
O ! the thocht o' thae days gars my auld heart aye 

fill! 

In the days o 5 langsyne, we were happy and free, 
Proud lords on the land, an' kings on the sea ! 
To our foes we were fierce, to our friends we were 

kind, 
An' where battle raged loudest, you ever did find 
The banner of Scotland float high in the wind ! 



2 m THE DAYS o' LANGSYNE. 

In the days o' langsyne, we aye ranted an' sang 
By the warm ingle side, or the wild braes amang ; 
Our lads busked braw, an' our lasses looked fine, 
An' the sun on our mountains seemed ever to shine ; 
O ! where is the Scotland o' bonnie langsyne ? 

In the days o' langsyne, ilka glen had its tale, 
Sweet voices were heard in ilk breath o' the gale ; 
An' ilka wee burn had a sang o' its ain, 
As it trotted alang through the valley or plain ; . 
Shall we e'er hear the music o' streamlets again ? 

In the days o' langsyne, there was feasting an' glee 5 

Wi' pride in ilk heart, and joy in ilk e'e ; 

An' the auld, 'mang the nappy, their eild seemed to 

tine, 
It was your stoup the nicht, an' the morn 'twas 

mine: 
O ! the days o' langsyne — O ! the days o' langsyne . 



This Song, and the others throughout the Volume to which his name is 
attached, are set to original music by my friend, Mr Peter M'Leod, and pub- 
lished in a splendid work, " The Melodies of Scotland," dedicated, by 
Royal permissioD, to Her Majesty the Queen. 



THE SUMMER COMES, 



The summer comes, but not in joy, 

As I hae seen wi' somebody ; 
The sunny hours gang cheerless by^ 
They dinna bring me somebody ! 

Oh ! hone, for somebody, 
Oh ! hey, for somebody. 
He's ower the sea that's dear to me — - 
Oh ! send me hame my somebody. 

The echoes high yon cliffs amang 
Are silent now for somebody ! 

And ilka wee bit birdie's sang 

Seems mourning for my somebody* 
Oh ! hone, for somebody, &c, 



THE SUMMER COMES. 

Down by yon broomy knowes sae green, 
I meet nae mair my somebody, 

Nor at the gloaming hour of e'en, 
I wander wi' my somebody. 

Oh ! hone, for somebody, &c. 

The wild flowers blooming in the dell, 

They mind me o' my somebody ; 

For soon they'll take a sad farewell, 

And leave me like my somebody. 

Oh ! hone, for somebody, 
Oh ! hey, for somebody. 
He's ower the sea that's dear to me — 
Oh ! send me hame my somebody. 



LAMENT FOR THE BARDS. 



Tune — " Hame, Hame, to my ain Countrie.' 

The harp of Scotia dear, 

That oft in joy was strung ; 
Alas ! 'tis silent now, 

And on the willows hung. 
The balmy breath of morn 

Awakes no more the strain, 
And to the gloamin' gale 

It kindles not again ! 

The minstrels famed in song, 

Who gave to song its fame — 
Ah ! whither have they fled, 

The high of note and name ? 
Alas ! not to the bowers 

Of song, and summer fair, 
But in the tuneless grave, 

We mark the mighty there ! 



LAMENT FOR THE BARDS. 

The cloud that gathering comes 

Across the evening sky, 
Obscures in heavy gloom 

The fair stars clust'ring high ; 
So came the cloud of death, 

While yet we thought it day, 
And in the gloom of night 

Took all our stars away ! 

The groves may yet be green, 

The valleys still be gay, 
And down the sunny glen 

The blackbird pour his lay ; 
But Scotia's harp no more 

Swells in the vocal throng, 
Nor heard the minstrel's voice 

In rapture and in song ! 



O ! THE FLOWERY MONTH OF JUNE. 



O ! the flowery month of June, again, I hail as 

summer's queen ; 
The hills and valleys sing in joy, and all the woods 

are green ; 
The streamlets flow in gladsome song, the birds are 

all in tune, 
And nature smiles in summer pride, in the flowery 

month of June ! 

There's music in the laughing sky, and balm upon 

the air; 
The earth is stamped with loveliness, and all around 

is fair. 
There's glory on the mountain top, and gladness on 

the plain ; 
The flowers wake from their wintry bed, and blush 

in bloom again ! 



8 THE FLOWERY MONTH OF JUNE. 

O ! the flowery month of June, my heart is bounding 

wild and free, 
As, with a fond and longing look, I gaze once more 

on thee ! 
With all thy thousand spangling gems — a bright and 

blessed boon — 
That come to cheer and welcome in the flowery 

month of June ! 

The lark hath sought an upward home, far in the 

dewy air ; 
While lowly by the rose's cheek, the blackbird's 

singing there ; 
Or, in its leafy bowers unseen, the thrush bursts 

forth in song, 
A low and pleasing melody the woody dells among ! 

! the flowery month of June, ah ! me, where are 

the fond ones fled ? 
No spring comes for the parted friends, nor summer 
to the dead ! 

1 miss them at the calm of eve, or sunny hour of 

noon ; 
Nor morning songs awake the dead, in the flowery 
month of June ! f 



BATTLE SONG. 



Like thunders loud the war-drum comes 

Deep rolling on the wind, 
While battle spears, in bright array, 

Like lightning gleam behind ! 

Come, freemen, then, with lance and shield, 

And hearts of valour brave, 
Hark ! freedom's voice is on the gale, 

'Tis — Vict'ry or a grave ! 

No nerveless hand shall wield a brand, 

For doubly sinew'd strung 
Is every arm, by vengeance stern, 

Or song of freedom sung ! 

• 



10 BATTLE SONG. 

As red leaves fall upon the blast, 
When winds are tempest high, 

So slaves shall fall before the free — 
Awake the battle-cry ! 

'Tis not a time for lady's bower, 
When 'gainst the free and fair, 

With vaunting shout, dark foemen come 
Our liberties to dare ! 

Yet soon each lady shall her knight 

A laurell'd hero see : 
A tyrant's sword, with vassal band, 

Shall never match the free ! 



11 



THE SIMMER SUN NOW BLINKS AGAIN. 



Tune — The Lea Rig, 

The simmer sun now blinks again, 

The laverock seeks the morning sky, 
The gowan glitters on the plain, 

The daisy on the mountain high ; 
And blithe my laddie on the hill 

Sings wi' a heart, save true love free ; 
His sang it seems to please me still, 

Although I ken 'tis a' 'bout me ! 

He speaks o' love, I think o' nane, 
He says without me he wad dee ; 

I bid him woo some ither ane, 
But aye he fondly turns to me. 



12 THE SIMMER SUN NOW BLINKS AGAIN. 

His pipe is sweetest on the hill, 
His voice is saftest on the lea, 

I canna loe the laddie ill 

That's aye sae unco fond o' me. 

The bee is for the moorland bound, 

The mavis sings the braes amang, 
And nature, in her happy round, 

Is rife wi' music, mirth, an' sang. 
Alake ! my heart, whaur wilt thou gang ? 

'Tis no as it has been wi' thee ! 
To be sae coy is surely wrang, 

The laddie's aye sae kind to me. 



13 



AE BONNIE DAY, AE SIMMER DAY. 



Ae bonnie day, ae simmer day, 
As I gaed down the glen, 

I heard an aged minstrel sing, 
An' waesome was the strain. 

Fareweel, he said, the mountain grey, 
Likewise the valley green, 

I've come to tak' a parting look 
Before I close my een. 

Fareweel, ye burnies blinkin' clear, 

Sae gladsome a', I trow ; 
Ye rin ower fast for aged feet, 

I canna chase ye now. 

Fareweel, ye laverocks o' the lift, 

Ye Unties o' the lea, 
For I maun hear your sangs nae mair 

That aft hae charmed me ! 



14 AE BONNIE DAY, AE SIMMER DAY, 

My aged harp's in aged hands, 
An' it will sound nae mair ; 

The echoes o' the bosky dell 
Are silent every where. 

Oh ! we maun leave our blithest sangs, 

An' ilka canty tune, 
When ance we find life's fleeting day 

Far yont the afternoon. 

We canna love as we hae loved, 
Nor sing as we hae sung, 

Yet wha wad care for turning auld 
When nae friends now are young ? 

Nor care, nor strife, the morn o' life 

In joy gaed glintin' by, 
The sun was aye upon the flowers, 

Or glancin' in the sky. 

I lean me on this aged tree, 
Save Heaven, my only stay ; 

We grew thegither, now we fade, — 
Twin brothers in decay ! 



15 



HURRAH! FOR THE FOAMING SEA. 



Hurrah ! for the foaming sea, my love, 

Hurrah ! for the foaming sea ; 
The wave beneath, and the sky above, 

And a parting smile from thee, my love ! 

And a parting smile from thee ! 

In budding spring the throstle sings, 

The lark in summer gay, 
But the ocean-bird its music wild 

Is piping night and day, my love I 

Is piping night and day ! 

O'er farest sea I'll syig of thee, 

My lady-love, so true ; 
By sunny shores of fairest green, 

'Neath skies of brightest blue, my love ! 

'Neath skies of brightest blue ! 



16 hurrah! for the foaming sea. 

What's freedom when the mind's enslaved ? 

Or joy, when bosoms mourn ? 
But my soul is free, for a smile from thee 

Tells of a gay return, my love ! 

Tells of a gay return ! 



AWAKE, DEAREST MAD ALINE. 

Tune — My Lodging is on the Cold Ground. 

Awake, dearest Madaline ! sweet love, arise 

This fair summer morning to view ; 
The sun's left his bed where the seas kiss the skies, 

The lark his green couch 'mong the dew. 
But the sun rising brightly, o'er nature, all gay, 

On one fair as thee does not shine ; 
Nor voice of the morning lark, wakening the day, 

Can equal the music of thine ! 



AWAKE, DEAREST MAD ALINE. 17 

From the long night of winter the flowerets come 
forth, 

And modestly blush into day ; 
A joy and a gladness are over the earth, — 

Arise, my sweet love, come away ! 
The summer appears, half in smiles, half in tears, 

Thy beauty will heighten't the while : 
The sweet little flower will outlive its short hour, 

If thou on its fair blossoms smile ! 

The earth is all green, and all bright is the sky, 

With songs grove and glen loudly ring ; 
'Tis surely the season of love and of joy, 

When summer is woo'd by the spring. 
There's nothing awanting from pleasure like this, 

Which nature gives fondly and free, 
Save one to partake in the banquet of bliss, 

And that one, fair Madaline, thee ! 



18 



O ! THOU BROOM, THOU BONNIE BUSH 
O' BROOM. 

T une — Cowdenknowes. 

O ! thou broom, thou bonnie bush o' broom, 

I leave that land and thee, 
Where freedom and thou hae flourish'd lang, 

Where freemen still are free ! 



The Indian vales are rich and fair, 
And bright is the floweret's bloom, 

But what are the flowers and the myrtle bowers, 
If I miss my native broom ? 



Then wilt thou come, thou bonnie bush o' broom, 

And grow on a Foreign strand ? 
That I may think, when I look on thee, 

I'm still in fair Scotland ! 






o! THOU BROOM, THOU BONNIE BUSH o' BROOM, 19 

But, ah ! that thought can ne'er be mine, 

Though thou beside me sprang ; 
Nor though yon bird, to Scotia dear, 

Did follow wi' its sang. 

Thy branches green might wave at e'en, 

At morn thy flowers might blaw, 
But it wadna be on Cowdenknowes, 

Nor yet by Ettrick Shaw. 

! thou broom, thou bonnie bush o' broom, 
Thou bonnie, bonnie broom, 

1 maist could weep for days that are gane, 

When I think on days to come ! 

My native land ca's forth a sigh, 

And thou, sweet broom, a tear, 
For I canna tak thee frae the braes 

To which thou'st lang been dear. 

O ! thou broom, thou bonnie bush o' broom, 

I leave that land and thee, 
Where freedom and thou hae flourish'd lang, 

Where freemen still are free ! 



20 



PITY THE LADS THAT ARE FREE. 

Tune — I hae a Wife o' my ain. 

Pity the lads that are free, 

Pity the chiels that are single ; 
For gude sake ! tak pity on me, 

I'm teased night and day wi' Jean Pringle. 
For lasses I carena a preen, 

My heart's my ain, an' I'm cheery, 
An' were't na for that cutty Jean, 

I'd sleep as soun' as a peerie ! 

What's beauty ? — it a' lies in taste ! 

For nane o't wad I gie a bodle ; 
But her's hauntin' me like a ghaist, 

Is whiles like to turn my noddle ! 
She's wooers — but what's that to me ? 

They're walcome to dance a' about her ; 
Yet I like na her smiling sae slee 

To lang Sandy Lingles the souter ! 



PITY THE LADS THAT ARE FREE. 21 

Yestreen I cam in frae the plew, 

The lasses were a' busy spinnin' ; 
I stoiter'd as if I'd been fou, 

For Jeanie a sang was beginnin'. 
I hae heard fifty maids sing, 

Whiles ane, an' whiles a' thegither ; 
But nane did the starting tears bring, 

Till she sang the " Braes o' Balquhither." 

Last Sunday, when gaun to the kirk, 

I met wi' my auld aunty Beenie, 
I looked as stupid's a stirk 

When she simply said — " How is Jeanie ?" 
An' at e'en, when I, wi' the rest, 

Was carritch'd, baith Larger and Single, 
When speered — Wham we suld like best ? 

I stammer'd out — " Young Jeanie Pringle !" 

Last week I gaed in to the fair, 

To wair out my Hallowmas guinea, 
When, wha suld I fa' in wi' there, 

A' dinkit out finely — but Jeanie ! 
I couldna gang by her for shame, 

I couldna but speak, else be saucy, 
Sae I had to oxter her hame, 

An' buy a silk snood to the lassie. 



22 PITY THE LADS THAT ARE FREE. 

It's no but she's baith gude an' fair, 

It's no but she's winsome and bonnie : 
Her een, glancing 'neath gowden hair, 

Are brighter, I daursay, than ony. 
But pawkie een's naething to me, 

Of gowd locks I want nae the straikin' ; 
Folk speak about love — but they'll see 

For ance, by my faith ! they're mistaken. 

I promised the lasses a spree, 

I promised the lads a paradin', 
I canna well hae't — let me see — 

Unless I get up a bit waddin'. 
I think I'll send ower for the dark, 

He might cry us out the neist Sunday ; 
It's winter — we're nae thrang at wark, 

Sae I think I'll just marry gin Monday ! 



23 



NORWEGIAN SMUGGLER'S SONG. 

Awake, ye midnight mariners! 

The storm is loud and high, 
And not a light, this livelong night, 

Hath gleam'd athwart the sky; 
And the seamew's heard — lone Ocean bird — 

To scream most piteously. 

But our bark is good— of the oak-tree wood — 
And our hearts are bold and free, 

And thus we sweep the troubled deep 
By Norway's stormy sea; 

And the winds may howl, as we onward trowl, 
But dauntless men are we ! 

Old Ocean's rage, we fear not it, 

Though wild its waters roar; 
Our danger's when we spy the land, 

Or touch upon the shore — 
For a hundred hands are ready there 

To seize our sea-brought store! 



24 NORWEGIAN SMUGGLER'S SONG. 

But we'll skim the wave to the midnight cave. 
Where the cliffs hang o'er the sea; 

And a golden piece who brings us there, 
His guerdon it shall be; 

And sword in hand we'll quickly land, 
Then launch again to sea! 

Away! fling topsails to the wind, 
For the tempest's strength is past; 

And bravely hath our little bark 
Borne out the bitter blast — 

And see, the mainsheet loosely hangs 
In ribbons round the mast ! 

Come pour the wine-cup nobly forth, 

And let him sing who pours — 
" The winds, my lads, have had their song, 

Now, messmates, we'll have ours ! 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! here's to the heart 

That never shrinks nor cowers !" 



25 



'TIS SAIR TO DREAM. 

Music by Josep de Pinna ; published by Messrs Wood and Co* 

J Tis sair to dream o' them we like, 

That waking we sail never see; 
Yet, oh ! how kindly was the smile 

My laddie in my sleep gave me ! — 
I thought we sat beside the burn 

That wimples down the flowery glen, 
Where, in our early days o' love, 

We met that ne'er sail meet again! 

The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave, 

And gladdened, wi' his parting ray, 
The woodland wild and valley green, 

Fast fading into gloamin' grey! 
He talk'd of days o' future joy, 

And yet my heart was haflins sair, 
For when his eye it beamed on me, 

A withering death-like glance was there ! 



26 'tis sair to dream. 

I thought him dead, and then I thought 

That life was young and love was free, 
For o'er our heads the mavis sang, 

And hameward hied the janty bee ! — 
We pledged our love and plighted troth, 

But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave, 
When starting from my dream, I found 

His troth was plighted to the grave ! 

I carina weep, for hope is fled, 

And nought would do but silent mourn, 
Were't no for dreams that should na come, 

To whisper back my love's return ; 
'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, 

That waking we sail never see ; 
Yet, oh ! how kindly was the smile 

My laddie in my sleep gave me ! 






27 



WE'VE A BONNIE WEE FLOWER, 
IN A FAR COUNTRIK 

Tune — The Brier Bush. 

Published to Music by Messrs Paterson and Roy, Edinburgh. 

We've a bonnie wee flower, in a far countrie, 
In a bright and sunny bower, in a far countrie, 

Where the sky is ever fair, 

And the myrtle scents the air, 
O ! our lovely blossom's there, in a far countrie ! 

May the Angels watch the flower, in a far countrie, 
And tent it ilka hour, in a far countrie ; 

And the nightingale's soft song, 

The spicy groves among, 
Its slumbers shall prolong, in a far countrie. 






28 WE'VE A BONNIE WEE FLOWER. 

There's gold to win and spare, in a far countrie, 
And gems and jewels rare, in a far countrie; 

But the brightest, purest gem, 

From a fondly cherished stem, 
Is the flow'ret we could name, in a far countrie. 

We may not cross the main, to a far countrie, 
Nor traverse hill and plain, to a far countrie ; 
But when the primrose springs, 
And the lintwhite sweetly sings, 
O! we'll welcome hame our flower, from a far 
countrie ! t 



29 



MANOR BRAES.* 

Tune — Logan Water, 

Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear, 
And CastlehilTs white wa's appear, 
I spent ae day, aboon a' days, 
By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes. 
The purple heath was just in bloom, 
And bonnie waved the upland broom, 
The flocks on flowery braes lay still, 
Or heedless wander'd at their will. 

'Twas there, 'mid nature's calm repose, 
Where Manor clearest, saftest flows, 
I met a maiden fair to see, 
Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e ; 

* The seat of my talented friend, Lawrence Anderson, Esq. 



30 MANOR BRAES. 

Her beauty to the mind did bring 

A morn where summer blends wi' spring, 

So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair, 

'Twas bliss to look — to linger there ! 

Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm, 

Wi' love to win, and sense to charm, 

So much of nature, nought of art, 

She'll live enthroned within my heart ! 

Aboon her head the laverock sang, 

And 'neath her feet the wild flowers sprang — 

O ! let me dwell, where beauty strays, 

By Manor stream, an' Manor braes. 






I speer'd gif ane sae young an' fair 

Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care ? 

She said her heart frae love was free, 

But aye she blushed wi' doun cast e'e. 

The parting cam, as partings come, 

Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb ; 

Yet I'll return, ere many days, 

To live and love 'mang Manor braes ! 



31 



THE BONNIE BRAES OF SCOTLAND. 



O ! the bonnie braes of Scotland, 

My blessings on them a', 
May peace be found in ilka cot, 

And joy in ilka ha'. 
Whaure'er a beild, however laigh, 

By burn or brae appears, 
Be there the gladsome smile o' youth, 

And dignity of years. 

O ! the bonnie braes of Scotland, 

Sae blooming and sae fair, 
There's mony a hame o' kindness 

And couthie dwallin' there ; 
And mair o' warldly happiness 

Than folk wad seem to ken, 
For the leal and happy heart 

Maks the canty but and ben. 



32 THE BONNIE BRAES OF SCOTLAND. 

O ! wha wad grasp at fame or power, 

Or walth seek to obtain, 
Be 't 'mang the busy scenes o' life, 

Or on the stormy main ; 
When the shepherd on his hill, 

Or the peasant at his plew, 
Finds sic a share o' happiness 

Wi' unco sma' ado ? 

The wind may whistle loud and cauld, 

And sleety blasts may blaw, 
Or, swirlin' round in whitening wreaths, 

May drift the wintry snaw ; 
But the gloamin' star comes blinkin' 

Afore he maist does ken, 
And his wine's cheerfu smile 

Maks the canty but and ben. 

O ! the bonnie braes of Scotland 

To my remembrance bring 
The lang, lang simmer sunny day, 

When life was in its spring ; 
When, 'mang the wild flowers wandering, 

The happy hours went by, 
The future wakening no a fear, 

Nor yet the past a sigh. 



THE BONNIE BRAES OF SCOTLAND. 33 

O ! the bonnie braes of Scotland, 

Hame o' the fair and free, — 
And hame it is a kindly word, 

Whaure'er that hame may be — 
My weary steps I'd fain retrace 

Back to the sunny days, 
When youthfu' hearts together joy'd 

'Mang Scotland's bonnie braes. 



34 




THE MAID OF ALLAN. 



Tune — Gala Water. 

Fair was the morn an' clear the sky, 

On ev'ry flower the dew had fallen, 
While I, to join in simmer's joy, 

Strayed by the bonnie brig of Allan. 
And there, in beauty's artless guise, 

A maiden fair did blooming wander, 
Pure as the morning light that lies 

On Allan's stream o' sunny splendour. 

The saft winds breathed amang the woods, 

Whaur ne'er a leaf was sered or fallen, 
The sun flung gowd adown the cluds, 

To please the bonnie maid of Allan. 
Sweet bloomed the flowers in simmer bowers, 

While birdies, in their leafy dwallin', 
Together sang, an' echoes rang 

For joy around the maid of Allan. 



THE MAID OF ALLAN. 35 

How sweet the voice of wak'ning spring, 

On bud an' blossom fondly calling 
But nature lists when she does sing, 

For nane sing like the maid of Allan. 
I canna boast of fortune's smile, 

For aft her frown has on me fallen, 
Yet walth could ne'er my care beguile 

Like her, the bonnie maid of Allan. 

O ! for a cot by Allan's stream, 

Wi' her whose love could banish sorrow, 
Then days would glide in blissfu' dream ! 

Wi' ne'er a dread of coming morrow. 
I've wandered far by burn an' brae, 

Through mony a Highland glen an' Lawlan', 
But had I her that I wad hae, 

'Twould be the bonnie maid of Allan ! 



36 



THE TRYSTING HOUR. 

Tune— The Women Folk. 

Adown the glen the saft winds blaw, 

Adown the glen the burnies rin, 
Adown the glen my laddie comes 

My love to seek, my heart to win. 

The trysting hour ! the trysting hour 1 
What can a lassie say or do ? 

The Ay or No's a solemn word, 
When faithfu' lovers come to woo. 

I'll braid my hair around my brow, 
The brow he's ca'd sae aften fair ; 

Pll try to quiet my anxious heart, 
For, O ! an unco flutt'ring's there. 
The trysting hour, &c. 






THE TRYSTING HOUR. 37 

Gin that my heart would guide my tongue, 
Nae doubt but love would win the day, 

But then, although sic were my thoughts, 
I'd ne'er find words to tell him sae. 
The trysting hour, &c. 

A moment paused 's a moment lost, 

Then why to speak should I be slow ? — 

But there he comes : now say, fond heart, 
Is it to be an Ay or No ? 

The trysting hour ! the trysting hour ! 

What can a lassie say or do ? 
The Ay or No's a solemn word, 

When faithfu' lovers come to woo. 



38 



DEEP MOANED THE NIGHT. 

Tune — John Anderson, my joe. 

Deep moaned the night, and ilka star 

Had quietly stown away. 
As hame I journeyed 'neath my plaid 

That's seen a better day : 
The wind soughed loud, and aye the cauld 

Gaed to my duntin' heart, 
Yet still I sang — My auld grey plaid, 

We twa sail never part. 

I ance had gowd within my reach, 

But, like the faithless snaw, 
When just about to seize the prize, 

It melted fast awa'. 
My lassie left me for a lout, 

Whilk maist did break my heart ; 
But still I sang — My auld grey plaid, 

We twa sail never part. 






DEEP MOANED THE NIGHT. 39 

The grave of ocean holds a friend 

That ance was dear to me ; 
And mony a weel-kent face is gane, 

That never mair I'll see ! 
For what is life, e'en at the best ? 

We meet but just to part ! 
And thou, my plaid, art maistly a' 

That gathers round my heart ! 



40 



THE DANCING WINE, THE DANCING 
WINE. 

Tune — Those Evening Bells. 

The dancing wine, the dancing wine, 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for the dancing wine, 
When hearts are high, and bright eyes shine, 
Hurrah ! hurrah I for the dancing wine ! 
Not gathered grape from Xerez' shore, 
Nor purple juice, Oporto's store, 
Not cooling Hock, from flowing Rhine, 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for the dancing wine ! 

The Port is drank to banish care, 

The Claret quaffed to ladies fair, 

The Champaign bright does mantling flow 

To raise our joy or drown our woe ; 

While Hermitage, or Frontignan, 

Awake the latent powers of man : 

But give me nectar, all divine, 

The dancing wine, the dancing wine ! 






THE DANCING WINE, THE DANCING WINE. 41 

For ladies, or for love-sick swains, 
Bring light wines from Italia's plains ; 
For critic sour, or lawyer stern, 
Bring Rudesheim, or Haut Sauterne ; 
For those who would in wit excel, 
The beverage of the blue Mozelle ; 
But I, who would in all things shine, 
Give me, give me the dancing wine ! 

The dancing wine, the dancing wine, 
Not Vin de Grave nor Palatine, 
Not Tuscan grape from Apennine — 
O ! no ; but fill the dancing wine. 
One draught — enough for every woe ! 
One draught — enough for all below ! 
One draught — enough for heaven divine ! 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for the dancing wine ! 



42 



O ! WHAT IS THIS WORLD, WI' ITS 
WEALTH AND RENOWN. 



O ! what is this world, wi 5 its wealth and renown, 
If content is awanting ilk pleasure to crown ? 
And where that does dwell, be't in cot e'er sae low, 
There's a joy and a gladness nae wealth can bestow. 

There's mony a wee biggin', in forest and glen, 
Wi' its clean sandit floor, an' its but and its ben, 
Where there's mair o' that peace whilk contentment 

aye brings, 
Than is found in the palace o' Princes or Kings. 

We canna get fortune, we canna get fame, 
We canna behind us a' leave a bit name ; 
But this we can a' hae, and, O ! 'tis na sma', 
A heart fu' o' kindness, to ane and to a' ! 



O ! WHAT IS THIS WORLD, &C. 43 

They say that life's short, and they dinna say wrang, 
Tor the langest that live can ne'er ca' it lang ; 
Then, since it is sae, make it pleasant the while ; 
If it gang by sae soon, let it gang wi' a smile. 

Wha e'er climbs the mountain maun aye risk a fa', 
While he that is lowly is safe frae it a'. 
The flower blooms unscath'd in the valley sae deep, 
While the storm rends the aik on its high rocky 
steep ! 

My highest ambition — if such be a crime — 

Is quietly to glide down the swift stream o' time ; 

And when the brief voyage in safety is o'er, 

To meet with loved friends on the far distant shore ! 

t 



44 



THE MIRTH'S LEFT THE GLEN. 

Tune — Lumps o' Puddiri. 

The mirth's left the glen, and the music the green, 
The auld steeple bell threatens aught hours at e'en — 
A stoup o' the strongest bring speedily ben, 
The night has a charm that the day doesna ken. 

Your puir feckless bodies I canna understand 
Wha flinch frae a tumbler when toddy's agaun; 
The pith o' the bauldest let ilka ane shaw, 
It's but a wee drap we can stand, after a'. 

There's friendship that's true, an' there's beauty that's 

kind, 
There's gowd for the getting to them wha've a mind, 
There's a blink o' blithe sunshine in life's dullest day, 
An' the warld's no sae bad yet as some folk wad say ! 



A CANTY SANG. 45 



If a sang frighten sorrow, then whaur is the sin ? 
We're dowie eneugh if we ance let grief in ; 
A cowart's a cowart the hale warld alang, 
Sae stand to your glasses, and scrieve us a sang ! 



A CANTY SANG. 



Tune — The Laird o' Cochpen. 

A canty sang, O, a canty sang, 

Will naebody gie us a canty sang? 

There's naething keeps nights frae turning ower lang 

Like a canty sang, like a canty sang. 

If folk wad but sing when they're gaun to fly te, 
Less envy ye'd see, less anger and spite; 
What saftens doun strife, and maks love mair Strang, 
Like a canty sang, like a canty sang? 
A canty sang, &c. 



46 A CANTY SANG. 

If lads wad but sing when they gang to woo, 
They'd come na aye hame wi' thoum i' their mou'; 
The chiel that wi' lasses wad be fu' thrang, 
Suld learn to hit to them a canty sang. 
A canty sang, &c. 

When fools become quarrelsome ower their ale, 
I'se gie ye a cure whilk never will fail, — 
When their tongues get short an' their arms get lang, 
Aye drown the din wi' a canty sang! 
A canty sang, &c. 



I downa bide strife, though fond o' a spree, 
Your sair wordy bodies are no for me : 
A wee dribble punch, gif it just be Strang, 
Is a' my delight, an' a canty sang! 

A canty sang, O, a canty sang, 

Will naebody gie us a canty sang? 

There's naethmg keeps nights frae turning ower lang 

Like a canty sang, like a canty sang. 






47 



THE HOUR IS COME, MY MARY DEAR. 



Tune — Gala Water. 
(New Music by Finlay Dun.) 

Tele hour is come, my Mary dear, 
That bids us part, an' part in sorrow; 

A waefu' fare thee well is near, 

Wi' nae blithe word to meet the morrow. 
Fare thee well! 

There's love that time can ne'er subdue, 
An' hearts that absence ne'er can alter ; 

As mine still constant is and true, 

Though fausely thus my tongue does faulter,- 
"Fare thee well!" 



48 THE HOUR IS COME. MY MARY DEAR. 

The simmer winds around us blaw, 

The broom, wi' yellow flowers, is waving ; 

But, ere its gowden blossoms fa 5 , 

Thy love will angry seas be braving. 
Fare thee well ! 

I mourn not leaving glens an' braes, 

Where wild-woods wave o'er streams the clearest, 
But there's a voice within that says, — 

" A lang adieu to thee, my dearest !" 
Fare thee well! 



49 



AGAIN LET US WELCOME THIS DAY 
MAIR THAN ONY. 



(Written for the Dunfermline Burns' Club.) 
T u ne — Wandering Willie. 

Again let us welcome this day mair than ony, 

This day that, wi' pleasure, aye welcome returns ; 
For then was proclaimed o'er thy wilds, Caledoni, 

The birth-day of genius — the birth-day of Burns! 
The deeds of our fame sank in time's rapid river, 

Auld Scotia sat wae, till his wild harp was strung ; 
That harp, whose sweet tones, O ! they'll vibrate for 
ever 

The strains that breathe freedom where'er they 
are sung! 



50 AGAIN LET US WELCOME THIS DAY. 

Nae doubt, there were ithers that shone bright before 
him, — 

The pastoral Allan, whose name is aye dear ; 
And Ferguson, O ! every heart will adore him, 

And shed o'er his memory sympathy's tear: 
And names that will shine in auld Scottish story, 

Bright stars that give lustre to Fame's glittering 
sky; 
But Burns, he arose, like the sun in his glory, 

With splendour unrivalled, that never will die ! 

But soon was the wild harp hung on the willow, 

Soon closed was the hand that 'woke the sweet 
strain ; 
And soon was he laid on his low earthy pillow, 

To charm and awaken us never again ! 
But still is he sung 'mong our glens and our moun- 
tains, — 

For echo hath whispered his name to the air, — 
And still is he heard by our sweet gurgling fountains, 

And still, in our bosoms, he's permanent there! 

He came 'mid the storm, O ! 'twas a sad omen, 
Nae simmer smiled sweet when his birth-day was 
nigh; 



AGAIN LET US WELCOME THIS DAY. 51 

He came 'mid the roar of the angry waves foaming 
He came 'mid the gloom of a bleak winter sky : 

And sad was his fate, as the wild breeze around him, 
And loud were his wails, as the stormy sea wave ; 

At the dawning of life, misfortune it found him, 
And only departed when he reached the grave ! 

But yet, though his life showed a prospect sae dreary, 

He whiles bade defiance to sorrow and care ; 
And aften the time slipped by unco cheery, 

When friendship, unfeigned, was mingling there. 
Then may the bright halo of friendship be ever 

Around us, when this day aye welcome returns ; 
A day that, in Scotland, will pass away never, 

Without being hailed as the birth-day of Burns ! 



52 



I SING OF THE LAND OF AULD 
SCOTLAND. 



Tune — Fye, let us a to the Bridal 

I sing of the land of auld Scotland, 

Where pine woods in majesty wave ; 
Her rocks the abode of the eagle, 

Her dwellings the homes of the brave ! 
Our fathers ! they feared no invader, 

For quickly the sword or the gun, 
With hands that could wield them, were ready 

To fight for the fields they had won ! 

Then, hey ! for the land of the heather, 
The land of the hill and the glen, 

The land of the soft blooming maidens, 
And land of the true-hearted men 



I SING OF THE LAND OF AULD SCOTLAND. 53 

O! wha isna proud o' his country? — 

The country that's wedded to fame, 
By patriots, heroes, and statesmen, 

The high and the mighty of name ! 
Then pledge me success to auld Scotland : 

She's fine, wad they let her alane ; 
For us, may we aye strive to follow 

The footsteps of those that are gane ! 

Then, hey ! for the land of the heather. 

Our mountains — may plenty surround them ; 

Our valleys — may peace shelter there ; 
Our sons — be they generous and noble ; 

Our daughters — as good as they're fair! 
Our moorlands — the home of the happy ; 

Our woodlands — the path of the free ; 
Our fond wish — the land of our fathers ; 

Our bumper — " Auld Scotland, to thee !" 

Then, hey ! for the land of the heather, 
The land of the hill and the glen, 

The land of the soft blooming maidens, 
And land of the true-hearted men ! t 



54 



COME, FILL MY WINE CUP. 

Inscribed to Captain Charles Gray, H.M.S. Vernon. 

CoxME, fill my wine cup to the brim ! 

The cup a hundred friends gave me ; 
And Captain Gray, I'll drink to him, 

That's far upon the Grecian sea. 
The south wind blows from Salamis — 

The noble Vernon greets the gale, 
And o'er the ocean wilderness 

She spreads her sun-lit snowy sail ! 

Speed on, proud bark ! thou need'st not fear 

Though waters swell, or loud winds blow, 
Or though a hostile fleet was near, 

Thou'dst fling thy thunders to the foe ! 
And foremost 'mong the strife of waves, 

Or first amid the battle fray — 
Where glory leads, or danger braves — 

There would you find the gallant Gray ! 



COME, FILL MY WINE CUP. 55 

His heart is of that manly mould 

That neither shrinks from friend or foe ; 
His bark through every sea has trowl'd — 

Or India's heat, or Zembla's snow. 
Come, fill the wine cup — pledge again, 

From silver bright, the ruby wine — 
Long live his sea-born lyric strain — 

The honour his, the bumper mine ! 

While Scotia's maidens blossom fair, 

The blue-eyed beauties of the land ; 
And while of noble sons to dare 

She boasts a brave and numerous band — 
So long shall proud hearts sweep the sea, 

'Mid warring winds or ocean's spray ; 
So long this toast shall live to thee — 

The good, the glorious, Captain Gray ! f 



56 



EMIGRANT'S SONG. 

T une — Gilder oy. 

The gallant bark now quits the strand, 

That bears me far away, 
From kindred, and the friends I love — 

Alas ! and lose for aye ! 
And soon my native hills and glens, 

Now robed in summer's hue, 
Shall vanish like a passing thought 

That memory never knew ! 

The swelling sails are flapping wide. 

As struggling to be free ; 
And ocean, with its thousand waves, 

Will soon my dwelling be : 
For every sound that greets mine ear, 

Of parting seems to tell ; 
And wavelets, rippling to the shore, 

Half-whisper — " Fare thee well I" 



emigrant's song. 57 

Edina, with her rocks and towers, 

Now dazzles in my sight, 
And ne'er, until this hour, appeared 

So lovely and so bright ! 
And yet a saddening thought awakes 

My bosom's every pain, 
For ne'er, in gladness nor in gloom, 

Shall I see her again ! 

Adieu ! thou seat of palaces, 

Thou native spot of mine ! 
Where maiden charms, and manly worth, 

In happy blendings shine. 
Ye bright blue skies, that circle in 

Romantic Scotia's shore, 
I leave you for the murky cloud 

And gathering tempest's roar ! 

Farewell, my harp ! that oft hath woke 

The wildest, sweetest strain ; 
I may not, will not, cannot touch 

Thy thrilling chords again, — 
Since her I leave, whose heavenly name 

Thy silver tones well know: 
In joy I might of Mary sing, 

But not in maddening woe ! 



58 




THE QUEEN OF MERRY ENGLAND. 

Tune — Le Petit Tambour. 

O ! the Queen of merry England, 

What Queen so loved as she ? 
A gallant band she may command, 

In all her kingdoms three ; 
And there the smile of beauty 

Still falls upon the free : 
O ! the Queen of merry England, 

What Queen so loved as she ? 

O ! the Queen of merry England, &c. 

O ! the Queen of merry England — 

The Rose upon its stem, 
Shall twine with Erin's Shamrock 

Around her diadem ; 



THE QUEEN OF MERRY ENGLAND. 59 

Whilst the Thistle of Old Scotland 

Shall ne'er forgotten be. 
O ! the Queen of merry England, 

What Queen so loved as she ? 

O ! the Queen of merry England, &c. 

O ! the Queen of merry England, 

When sounds the battle drum, 
With hearts of fire and swords of flame 

A thousand warriors come, 
To drive from land her foemen, 

Or sweep them from the sea ! 
O ! the Queen of merry England, 

What Queen so loved as she ? 

O ! the Queen of merry England, &c 






60 



AWAY TO THE WOODLANDS. 



Away to the woodlands, Eliza, my fair, 

The morning is bright and the valleys are green, 
The glad smile of nature shall welcome you there, 

Of fond hearts the dearest, of beauty the Queen. 
Away to the woodlands, the winter is gone, 

The green earth is budding in summer's array, 
The blackbird is singing, in deep mellow tone, 

Away to the woodlands, Eliza, away! 

Away to the woodlands, the summer is near, 

The sun's on the lake, and the lark's in the sky ; 
And, if the young rose is bedew'd with a tear, 

'Tis the soft tear of gladness, the dew-drop of joy. 
Away to the woodlands, and there we shall roam 

Till the sun woo the Ocean at calm evening's 
close : 
Your heart is my treasure, your bosom my home, 

And there all my fond hopes in safety repose. 



61 



AGAIN THE DAY. 

("Written for the First Anniversary of the Leith 
Burns' Club, 25th January, 1827.) 

T une — Good night, an joy. 

Again the day, the happy day, 

To Scotia ever dear, returns, 
(O! it demands your noblest lay,) 

That gave to Caledonia Burns ! 
A day that we shall ne'er forget, 

As lang as we hae breath to draw ; 
For we will drink the memory yet 

Of Burns, the bard, that's now awa'. 

His tales, how aften they've been tauld, 
His sangs, how aften they'll be sung ; 

His sterling sense aye charms the auld, 
His playfu' strains aye please the young 



62 AGAIN THE DAY. 

An' no confined to Scotia's tongue, 
But spread through ilka English ha', 

His fame, in Foreign lands, has rung — 
The fame o' him that's now awa'. 

O ! what a great and glorious band 

Hae rais'd themsels to heights o' fame ! 
The patriots, guardians o' our land, 

The poet an' the warrior's name ! 
To these, ilk Scotsman proudly turns 

Wi' fondest pride, wi' deepest awe ; 
But Nature only made one Burns, 

The proudest name the warld e'er saw. 

An' aye, when this glad time returns, 

While years, insidious, steal away, 
To celebrate the birth of Burns, 

Some social few shall meet this day. 
Then raise the cup, with heartfelt joy, 

Though haply in 't a tear may fa', 
An' drink it to the memory 

Of Burns, the bard, that's now awa' ! 



63 



FARE THEE WELL. 

Tune — Roys Wife. 
Published to New Music, by R. A. Smith. 

Fare thee well, for I must leave thee, 
But; ! let not our parting grieve thee ; 

Happier days may yet be mine, 

At least I wish them thine — believe me ! 

We part — but, by those dew-drops clear, 
My love for thee will last for ever ; 

I leave thee — but thy image dear, 

Thy tender smiles, will leave me never. 
Fare thee well, &c. 

O ! dry those pearly tears that flow — 
One farewell smile before we sever ; 

The only balm for parting woe 
Is — fondly hope 'tis not for ever. 
Fare thee well, &c. 



64 FARE THEE WELL. 

Though dark and dreary lowers the night, 
Calm and serene may be the morrow ; 

The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright, 
Without some mingling drops of sorrow ! 



Fare thee well, for I must leave thee, 
But, O ! let not our parting grieve thee ; 

Happier days may yet be mine, 

At least I wish them thine — believe me ! 



65 



SONG. 

Tune — 1 have seen, in the calm dewy morning. 

They will come ! they will come ! the bright flowers, 

In sunlight and beauty all gay ; 
But they bring not the fond happy hours, 

Nor music of years passed away ! 

The spring-time ! I hailed it with gladness — 
Its songs and its sweet flowery bloom ; 

But now I behold it with sadness — 
It wakes not the sleep of the tomb ! 

They are gone ! they are gone ! the light-hearted. 
That gladdened life's blithe early day — 

The young and the gay have departed, 
The loved and the leal are away ! 

E 



66 O ! BID THAT SUN NOT SHINE SO BRIGHT. 

Oh ! spring flowers are sweet softly waving, 
And summer has blossoms in store, 

But rather the wintry winds raving, 
When friendship and love are no more ! f 



O ! BID THAT SUN NOT SHINE SO 
BRIGHT. 

Tune — O ! no, we never mention her, 

O ! bid that sun not shine so bright, 

In yonder summer sky ; 
His glancing beams, on woods and streams, 

Mind me of days gone by. 

Give me the gloom of forest drear, 

Or rock, by stormy shore ; 
Why does he shine, since Madaline 

Now smiles on me no more ? 



O ! BID THAT SUN NOT SHINE SO BRIGHT. 67 

I thought that love was ever kind, 

That truth was ever true, 
Nor thought I that a form so fair 

Or change or coldness knew : 

But now the bright illusion's gone, 

My dream of joy is o'er, 
For Madaline, once true and kind, 

Now smiles on me no more ! 

Thou sun, that wak'st each blushing flower, 

Thy light I still could see, 
Did it bring forth a flower as fair, 

One half so fair as she. 

But blushing flowers are changing, too, 

Like woman's love — soon o'er ; 
O ! do not shine, since Madaline 

Now smiles on me no more ! 



68 



YOUNG WILLIE, THE PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 

Young Willie, the ploughman, has nae land nor 
siller, 

An' yet the blithe callant 's as crouse as a king ; 
He courts his ain lass, an' he sings a sang till her, 

Tak tent, an' ye'se hear what the laddie does 
sing: — 
" O ! Jenny, to tell that I lo'e you 'fore ony, 

Wad need finer words than I've gatten to tell ; 
Nor need I say to ye, Ye're winsome and bonnie, — 

I'm thinkin' ye ken that fu' brawly yoursel ! 

te I've courted you lang — do ye hear what I'm 

telling ? — 

I've courted you, thinkin' ye yet wad be mine ; 
And, if we should marry wi' only ae shilling, 

At the warst, only ae shilling, Jenny, we'se tine. 
But love doesna aye he in gowpens o' guineas, 

Nor happiness dwall whaur the coffers are fu' ; 
As muckle we'll surely aye gather atween us, 

That want ne'er sail meet us, nor misery pursue. 



YOUNG WILLIE, THE PLOUGHMAN, 69 

* The chiels that are christened to riches an' gran- 
deur 
Ken nought o' the pleasure that hard labour 
brings ; 
What in idleness comes they in idleness squander, 
While the labouring man toils a' the lang day and 
sings ! 
Then why should we envy the great an' the noble, 
The thocht is a kingdom — it's ours what we hae ! 
A boast that repays us for sair wark an' trouble, 
' I've earned it !' is mair than a monarch can say. 

" The green buds now peep through the auld runk- 
led timmer, 

The sun, at a breath, drinks the hale morning dew, 
An' nature is glad at the comin' o' simmer, 

As glad as I'm aye at the smiling o' you. 
The flowers are a' springing, the birds are a' singing, 

An' beauty an' pleasure are wooin' the plain ; 
Then let us employ it, while we may enjoy it, 

The simmer o' life, Jenny, comes na again !" 



vo 



OF BESSY BELL AN' MARY GRAY. 

Tune — My Love, she's but a Lassie yet. 

Of Bessy Bell an' Mary Gray 

Wha hasna heard, wha hasna sung ? 
Twa bonnie — but it's mony a day 

Sin' they were blooming, fair, an' young. 
Ae lass, gude sooth, is plenty, O, 

For ony douce an' sober man ; 
Yet, though I'm baith, I've gatten twa, — 

My Maggie an' my Mary Ann. 

O ! Maggie is a bonnie lass, 

As e'er gaed barefit through a glen ; 
I'd toast her in anither glass, 

Though I before had tippled ten : 
E'en, after that, I'd aiblins brew, 

Did strength permit, anither can, 
An' drink to — Maggie ? — no ! — to you, 

My bonnie blue-e'ed Mary Ann. 



OF BESSY BELL AN' MARY GRAY. 71 

I think on Maggie a' the day, 

I dream o' Mary a' the night : 
Maggie's the sun's bright shining ray, 

Mary the moon's pale modest light. 
How happy could I be wi' baith, 

Or either, as the auld sang sings ; 
But, as it is, I'll tak my aith, 

Nor day nor night me gladness brings. 

My Maggie is the blushing rose, 

That in the valley blooms sae fair ; 
Mary the primrose wild, that grows 

'Mang sweetest flowers, the sweetest there. 
My Maggie fair, for you I'd dee, 

My face, you see, is pale an' wan ; 
But I maun live, to gaze a wee 

On bonnie blue-e'ed Mary Ann ! 



72 



SHE'S AWA', SHE'S AWA', I LO'E DEAR. 

Tune — Whas at my Window, wha? 

She's awa', she's awa', I lo'e dear, I lo'e dear, 
She's awa', she's awa', I lo'e dear, 

Far, far o'er the main, 

To return ne'er again, 
Our ain happy valley to cheer, to cheer, 
Our ain happy valley to cheer. 

Nae mair on the bright simmer e'en, simmer e'en, 
Nae mair on the bright simmer e'en 

Will the young join in praise, 

And the auld stand and gaze, 
As they did when she walked on the green, on the 

green, 
As they did when she walked on the green. 



she's awa', she's awa', i lo'e dear. 73 

There was joy on the white ocean faem, ocean faem, 
There was joy on the white ocean faem, 

When she went from our sight 

Like a vision of light, 
But an unco heart-breaking at hame, at hame, 
But an unco heart-breaking at hame ! 

The lily ance mair woos the plain, woos the plain, 
The lily ance mair woos the plain, 

But my sweet modest flower 

To her ain native bower 
Returns, oh ! never again, again, 
Returns, oh ! never again ! 



74 



THE MARINER TO HIS BARK. 

O ! my bark, dost thou long to be free, 

That thou chaf'st thus thy keel on the sand ? 
Then, away ! for I love to career it with thee, 

Far away, far away from the land. 
We shall traverse where nought meets the eye, 

Save the green wave, or high flashing spray ; 
Where no sound, save the wild wheeling sea-bird's 
lone cry, 

Screaming welcome to us on our way. 

Let us haste, for the light breeze is near 

That shall waft us o'er yon summer sea ; 
By the sun, bright and clear, our wild course we 
shall steer, 

And the stars our night compass shall be. 
Then, away ! my swift bark, o'er the deep, 

Bound along o'er the vast rolling main ; 
Like an eagle across the broad wave thou wilt sweep, 

And return to thine eyry again. 



THE MARINER TO HIS BARK. 75 

Many tempests have braved been by thee, 

Where no haven of shelter was nigh ; 
Thou hast plunged thy bold prow in each wave of 
the sea, 

Spread thy white flag beneath every sky. 
Is there bliss to be found in this world ? 

O ! that bliss I can tell where to find, — 
On thy deck, my tight bark, with thy sails all un- 
furled, 

And thou shooting away 'fore the wind ! 

O ! I dreamed, in my night-troubled sleep, 

That our loved ocean wanderings were o'er ; 
Unheeded, I sank in the dark stormy deep, 

And thou lay a frail wreck on the shore ! 
But away with such visions as these, 

When thy true helm I thus grasp again ; 
Thou art leaving behind thee thy track on the seas, 

And our home is the far distant main ! 



76 



AWAKE THE SONG. 

^Music by Miss It. A. Cuxdell. 

Awake the song, and let it flow — 

In strains of joy the chords shall swell; 

Save when the tones breathe notes of woe 
At friendship's close, or love's farewell ! 

And though the pleasure's mix'd with pain 
When music's tones the past recall, 

And picture forth the past again 
In glowing tints, 'mid sunshine all ! 

Still wake the song — for, oh ! 'tis sweet 
To steal in dreams to hours gone by ; 

When those have met who ne'er shall meet, 
And hearts now low, then mantled high ! 



AWAKE THE SONG. 77 

As flow'rets budding forth in spring 

Rejoice when freed from winter's thrall ; 

So music comes when those who sing 
The lov'd and lovely we may call ! 

Awake the song, and let it flow — 

In strains of joy the chords shall swell ; 

Save when the tones breathe notes of woe 
At friendship's close, or love's farewell! f 



78 



THE EMIGRANTS' WELCOME. 



Tune — The Boys of Kilkenny. 



From the land of our sires, see, the valiant come 

forth, 
From the glens of old Scotland, the pride of the 

North ; 
And we, though away o'er the dark roaring main, 
Can think of our dear native mountains again. 

They come not with trumpet, they come not with 

drum, 
In the fond ties of friendship our brothers they 

come; 
And loud though around them the ocean may roar, 
The pilgrims shall rest when the journey is o'er ! 



THE EMIGRANTS' WELCOME. 79 

They come, from the banks of the Spey and the Dee, 
Where the heather is red, and the thistle waves free ; 
Where the primrose grows wild, and the brier is in 

bloom, 
To the dark winter forests of Canada gloom. 

They come, from the braes of the Tweed and the 

Doon, 
With age in its night, and youth in its noon ; 
And soft blooming maidens, all lovely to see, 
The joy of the brave, and the pride of the free ! 

They come, now as strangers, but strangers no more, 
A welcome we'll give them, as we got before ; 
We'll banish their sorrow if they should repine, 
When they think on the " Scotland o' bonnie lang- 
syne !" 

Our homes shall be theirs, and the wood-fire shall 

burn, 
To warm and to welcome the wand'rers that mourn ; 
And though different the sky and the landscape 

around, 
Oh ! 'tis home, oh ! 'tis country, where kindness is 

found ! f 



80 



O ! THIS WERE A BRIGHT WORLD. 

Tune — The Last Rose of Summer. 

O ! this were a bright world, — 

Most pleasant and gay, 
Did love never languish, 

Nor friendship decay; 
And pure rays of feeling, 

That gladden the heart — 
Like sunshine to nature — 

Did never depart ! 

To fair eyes no weeping, 

To fond hearts no pain ; — 
Did hope's buds all blossom — 

All blooming remain ! 
No sorrow to blighten, 

No care to destroy ; 
O ! then what a bright world 

Of gladness and joy ! 



O ! THIS WERE A BRIGHT WORLD. 81 

Did time never alter, 

Nor distance remove 
The friends that we cherish — 

The fond ones we love — 
A sky never clouded, 

Nor darkened by woe — 
O ! then how serenely 

Life's streamlet would flow ! 

Were pleasure less fleeting, 

Nor brought in its train 
The mem'ry of joys fled, 

That come not again — 
O ! then what a bright world — 

All gladsome and gay — 
Did love never languish, 

Nor friendshin decay, t 



82 



WE CANNOT LIVE OUR DAYS AGAIN. 

(Music by R. Tevexdale.) 

We cannot live our days again, 

But we can dream them o'er ; 
Thus nightly visions, free from pain, 

Youth's sunny hours restore ; 
And, oh ! who would not prize the past, 

To love — to memory dear ; 
The golden moments could not last, 

But they in dreams appear. 

Thus oft times summer's fairest child— 

Though summer's taken wing — 
The rose-bud, 'mid the wintry wdld, 

Comes like a dream of spring, 
Till, 'neath some blast it bows and breaks 

In beauty's sad decay, 
And 'mid fond dreams the morning wakes 

To chase them all away. 






83 



BONNIE LASSIE, FAIREST LASSIE. 

Tune — Coming through the Rye. 

Bonnie lassie, fairest lassie, 

Dear art thou to me ; 
Let me think, my bonnie lassie, 

I am loved by thee ! 
I speak na of thy ringlets bright, 

Nor of thy witching e'e ; 
But this I'll tell thy bonnie sel', 

That dear art thou to me. 

! beauty it is rare, lassie, 

Yet, though that beauty's thine, 

1 love na thee for beauty's sake, 

'Tis just I wish thee mine. 
Thy smile might match an angel's smile, 

Gif such, save thee, there be, 
Yet though thy charms my bosom warms, 

I'll tell na them to thee. 



& 



84 BONNIE LASSIE, FAIREST LASSIE. 

Thy sunny face has nature's grace, 

Thy form is winsome fair ; 
But when for lang thou'st heard that san 

O ! wherefore hear it mair ? 
Thy voice, saft as the hymn of morn, 

Or evening's melody, 
May still excel, as a' can tell, 

Then, wherefore hear't frae me ? 



Bonnie lassie, fairest lassie, 

Think na \ strange o' me, 
That, when thy beauty's praised by a', 

That I should silent be ! 
For wha can praise what nane can praise ? 

Yet, lassie, list to me, — 
Give me thy love, and in return 

I'll sing thy charms to thee ! 



85 



WILLIE MILLAR O' THE GLEN.* 

Tune — Andro and his Cutty Gun. 

Blithe, blithe is Willie Millar, 

The first o' friends, the wale o' men, 

Ye'll meet wi' few sae leal an' true 
As Willie Millar o' the glen ! 

His heart is true to nature's truth, 
Wha dinna ken him, dinna ken, 

The ae best friend to age an' youth, 
Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen ! 



* This little jeu d'esprit referred, to my late valued friend, [William 
Millar, Esq. author of the " Fairy Minstrel," &c. who, with a number of 
other bards, dear to Scotland, has, since the song was written — 

" Passed from sunlight to the sunless land." 



86 WILLIE MILLAR o' THE GLEN. 

For wit an' lair that's matched by nane, 
For keekin' into things far ben, 

Ye'll wait a while or ye meet ane 
Like Willie Millar o' the glen ! : 

He's routh o' cracks, an' canty sangs, 
Auld-warld stories nine or ten ; 

His fame through a' the kintra gangs, 
Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen! 

Like Wallace, wi' his auld Scots sword, 
Sae Willie wields them wi' his pen ; 

Ye'd better tak him at his word, 
Blithe W r illie Millar o' the glen ! 

At Lawland jigs, or Highland reels, 
The swankest cry, when he does sten', 

" The deil's put lightning in his heels !" 
Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen ! 

At funeral wark, or draidgie spree, 
When folk are unco grieved, ye ken : 

Or foremost at the bridal glee, 
'Tis Willie Millar o' the glen ! 



WILLIE MILLAR o' THE GLEN. 87 

A' Boston, Brown, an' Buchan's warks, 

He has them at his finger en', 
He might been ranked amang the clarks, 

Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen ! 

At toddy-bowl, or brandy-cup, 

At bicker or at tappit hen, 
Losh ! how his e'e does kindle up, 

Blithe Willie Millar o' the glen J 

Blithe, blithe is Willie Millar, 

The first o' friends, the wale o' men, 

Ye'll meet wi' few sae leal an 5 true 
As Willie Millar o' the glen ! 



88 



O! COME, MY LASSIE, CALDER BANKS 

Tune — Of a the Airts the Wind can BJaw. 

O ! come, my lassie, Calder banks 

Are blooming fresh an' green, 
Wi' sun an' shower — there's mony a flower 

Where snawy wreaths hae been ! 
The primrose blooms upo' the brae, 

The lily by the burn, 
The sun shines wi' a downward glent, 

An' nature's smiles return ! 

Saft music frae ilk leafy bough, 

Fa's on the balmy air, 
Wi' singin' din the streamlets rin, 

And a', like you, is fair. 
Then come, my lassie, come wi' me, 

Adown yon birken shaw, 
Where breezes frae the bowers o' spring 

In simmer saftness blaw. 



O ! COME, MY LASSIE, C ALDER BANKS. 89 

The laverock soars aboon the cluds, 

An' warbles, dimly seen, 
The mavis learns his simmer sang 

Amang the leaves sae green. 
O ! Calder banks are dear to me, 

For there, in love's fond hour, 
Ye blossom'd forth, my lassie fair, 

Young beauty's purest flower ! 



90 



THE TAX-GATHERER.* 

Tune — Bonnie Dundee,. 

O ! do ye ken P — the taxman an 5 vriter ? 

Ye're weel aff wha ken naething 'bout him ava : 
They ca' him Inspector, or Poor's Rates Collector — 

My faith ! he's weel kent in L— , P— M'C— . 
He ca's, and he comes again — haws, and he hums 
again; 

He's only ae hand, but it's as gude as twa ; 
He pu's 't out an' raxes, an' draws in the taxes, 

An' pouches the siller — shame ! P — M'C — . 

He'll be at your door by daylight on a Monday, 
On Tyesday ye're favour'd again wi' a ca' ; 

E'en a slee look he gied me at kirk the last Sunday, 
Whilk meant — " Mind the preachin' an' P— M ( C—. 



* It is needless, perhaps, to state, that the running sentiment of this song is 
meant as a good-humoured joke against the profession, and not applicahle to 
any individual. 



THE TAX-GATHERER. 91 

He glowers at my auld door as if he had made it, 
He keeks through the keyhole when I am awa' ; 

He'll syne read the auld stane, that tells a' wha read it 
To « Blisse God for cH giftes?*— -but P— M'C— . 

His sma' papers neatly are 'ranged a' completely, 

That yours, for a wonder, 's the first on the raw ! 
There's nae jinkin' P — , nae antelope's fleeter — 

Nae cuttiri acquantance wi' P — M'C — . 
'Twas just Friday e'enin', Auld Reekie I'd been in, 

I'd gatten a shillin' — I maybe gat twa ; 
I thought to be happy wi' friends ower a drappie, 

When wha suld come pap in — but P — M'C — . 

I'm auld, now, an' donner't, though yince I was 
honour'd, 

Oh P — tak pity, and some mercy shaw ! 
I yince^had a hunder o' notes — do ye wonder ?— 

Hae ye made as mony yet ? P — M tf C — ! 
My yill stands nae mair in yon auld girded barrel, 

The rattans sit squeakin' in nooks o' the wa' ; 
Nae bonnie lass now bakes for me scon or farle — 

Ye've made a toom house to me ! P — M'C — . 



* A devout legend, common in the seventeenth century, above the entrance 
of houses. 



92 THE TAX-GATHERER. 

There's houp o' a ship though she's sair pressed wi' 
dangers, 

An' roun' her frail timmers the angry winds blaw ; 
I've aften gat kindness unlook'd for frae strangers, 

But wha need houp kindness frae P — M'C — ? 
I've kent a man pardon'd when just at the gallows, 

I've kent a chiel honest whase trade was the law ! 
I've even kent fortune's smile fa' on gude fallows, 

But I ne'er kent exceptions wi' P — M'C — ! 

Our toun, yince sae cheery, is dowie an' eerie, 

Our shippies hae left us, our trade is awa' ; 
There's nae fair maids strayin', nae wee bairnies 
playin', 

Ye've muckle to answer for ! P — M'C — . 
But what gude o' grievin' as lang's we are leevin', 

My banes I'll sune lay within yon kirk-yard wa' ; 
There nae care shall press me, nae taxes distress me, 

For there I'll be free frae thee,— P— M'C— . 



93 



WHAT MEANS A' THIS SCORNING, 
MY LASSIE ? 

Tune — Tarn Glen. 

What means a' this scorning, my lassie ? 

An' what mean thae looks o' disdain ? 
It wasna your wont to be saucy, 

It isna your nature, I ken. 
Langsyne, when we met 'mang the breckan, 

You laughed the young simmer day by ; 
But now, sin' this turn ye hae taken, 

Ye've grown unco scornfu' and shy ! 

If love be the cause, though I doubt it, 
Be frank, just at ance, now, an,' tell ; 

I'll deave ye nae mair, lass, about it, 
Gin I be the loved ane mysel. 



94 WHAT MEANS A' THIS SCORNING, MY LASSIE ? 

But I'll steal to the fair agin Monday, 
An' buy you a braw prentit goun ; 

An', faith ! ye'se appear the niest Sunday 
The fairest young bride in the toun. 

Then cease wi' your scorning, my lassie, 

An' gie me a kind look the while ; 
Leave them to be frowning and saucy 

Whase faces were ne'er made to smile. 
I'm but a puir hand at beseeching, 

And words hae nae mony to spare ; 
Sae I'll mak a short end o' the preaching, 

Gin ye will but listen the prayer ! 



95 



AWAKE, MY HARP, THY SAFTEST LAY. 

Tune — Fye, gae rub her ower wi Strae. 

Awake, my harp, thy saftest lay, 

And, O ! let love be a' the strain, 
While ower thy strings I deftly play 

Till echo bring the notes again ! 
An' sing how Peggie's blooming, fair, 

An' tell how Peggie's loving, kind ; 
The sweetest form an' simplest air, 

The warmest heart an' noblest mind. 

Her een wad strike a bodie bliii', 

But, 'neath their darts, young love-beams play 
Like streaks of morn, that usher in 

The splendours o' the coming day. 
Her waving ringlets glossy hing, 

Her neck is pure as snaw new driven ; 
Her eyebrows nane daur ever sing, 

They seem the pencil-wark o' heaven ! 



96 AWAKE, MY HARP, THY SAFTEST LAYi 

When Peggie walks at morning ray, 

The wee birds round her beauty thrang ; 
And, when she smiles, the infant day 

Awakes a' nature into sang. 
Where'er she strays there I'll be found, 

For I yill follow in her train, 
Until the happy time eome round 

That lovely Peggie's a' my ain. 



97 



THOU WEARY MORN. 

Tune — Gude nicht, an joy. 

Thou weary morn, when wilt thou dawn ? 

And yet nae gladness comes wi' day ; 
But day an' night I mourning sigh 

For loved hours fled an 5 joys away. 
My laddie was the kindest swain, 

An' sought my heart wi' a' his skill, 
An' yet I've tint that lad sae true 

Wi' woman's pride an' woman's will. 

It wasna but I lo'ed him weel, 

It wasna but I thought him kind, 
But just that silly pride o' heart 

That lovers shouldna ever mind. 
He tauld me that my heart was proud, 

An' what he said was maybe true ; 
But little does my laddie ken 

How humbled low that heart is now ! 

G 



98 THOU WEARY MOKff. 

At kirk I keekit aff my book 

To see if he would look at me, 
But ne'er a blink gat I frae him, 

Although the tear stood in my e'e. 
An' when the preachin'-time was done, 

Hk lassie had her lover gay, 
While I gaed dowie hame alane, 

An', O ! it was a weary way ! 

But the lav'rock sings high in the lift, 

Although his nest's deep in the glen ; 
Sae, though my withered hopes are low, 

They maybe yet will rise again ! 
The sun behind the cloud does shine, 

Although his face we dinna see ; 
Sae my dear lad may yet prove kind, 

Although it a' seems dark to me ! 



99 



THERE'S PLEASURE WHEN THE 
MORNING SUN. 

(Written to an ancient Border Melody.) 

There's pleasure when the morning sun looks ower 
the mountain grey, 
And shines on the flowerets a' blushing in the dew; 
When the starnies in the blue lift in dimness fade 
away, » 

And the little singing birdies their sangs a' renew. 
But no the sun o' morn, though in brightness he 
appear, 
And simmer in gladness come ower the flowery lea, 
Can gie me sic delight as a smile frae my dear, 
The lassie o' my heart that is dearest to me ! 

Her face it is the rose newly washed wi' a shower, 
Her ringlets the slae-berries o' the jetty dye; 

Her neck sae round and sma', is the bonnie lily flower, 
Her een the dewy pearls in its bosom that lie. 



100 there's pleasure when the morning sun. 

The mavis' sang is sweet when at e'enin'hour he sings, 
And sweet is the blackbird singin' on the tree ; 

But the voice o' my lassie a sweeter music brings, 
The lassie o' my heart that is dearest to me ! 

The shepherd loves the shade at the sunny hour o' 
noon, 
When his flocks on the green braes are a' feeding by ; 
The bard loves to wander beneath the smiling moon, 
When the wind scarcely breathes through the blue 
e'ening sky. 
The bee loves the wild flowers adown the glen that 
blaw, 
The lammie the gowan that blossoms on the lea ; 
J3ae I lo'e my bonnie lassie, the fairest of a', 
The lassie o' my heart that is dearest to me ! 

I carena for grandeur nor fortune's fickle smile, 

I sigh na for walth, sin' it never can be mine ; 
Could riches bring me joy, or my sorrows beguile, 

Like the jewel that I prize an' never shall tine ? 
Her beauty's but the image o' her pure heart within, 

The language o' her soul it is tauld in her e'e ; 
And her love mair than gowd I will ever seek to win, 

The love o' my lassie that's dearest to me ! 



101 



ON SIMMER NIGHTS, WHEN SAFT 
WINDS BLAW. 

Tune — Willie was a Wanton Wag. 

{WRITTEN FOR THE CLUN IE CURLING CLUB, 1835.) 

On simmer nights, when saft winds blaw, 

An' flowers on ilka bank are seen, 
To throw the bowl, or toss the ba', 

The lads assemble on the green ; 
But bolder sport is ours, I ween — 

The gay, the gallant, and the free — 
When winter comes, in siller sheen, 

A merry band o' curlers, we ! 

On Clunie loch the ice lies deep, 

'Tis crisping ower the moorland burn, 

'Mid frozen rigs the plough does sleep, 
Till wakening spring again return, 



102 ON SIMMER NIGHTS. 

Then, chimney corners let us spurn, 
An' to the ice-ground quickly flee ; 

We'll play them yet a souple turn, 
An' up the rink bear aff the gree ! 

A wide field, an' nae favour shaw, 

We'll guard, or draw, or wick a bore — 
Fair play, an' clear the ice o' snaw, 

We'll leave them lagging on hog-score ! 
And now the gallant game is o'er : 

Hurrah ! we've beat them ten to three ! 
Now, let us join in social splore, 

A merry band of curlers, we ! 

Come, fill your glass or gie's your sang^ 

Or, listen to this toast o' mine,— 
Here's " Icy winters, sax weeks lang, 

Sic winters as we've seen langsyne !'* 
O, wha our manly sport wad tine ? 

O, wha wad miss our canty glee ? 
Be't nappy ale or sparkling wine, 

A merry band o' curlers, we ! 



103 



O ! THE GOWAN'S IN THE GLEN. 

( Music by the Author.) 

Published by Messrs Wood and Co. Edinburgh ; 
Republished in London to Music by Miss Cockagne, of the Abbey, Shrewsbury. 

O ! the gowan's in the glen, and the winter is awa', 
And through the budding birken tree the simmer 

breezes blaw, 
And my heart is wi' my lassie, though my lassie 's 

gane frae me, 
O ! my heart is wi' my lassie, for where else could 

it be! 

O ! the simmer morn is sweet, wi' its sunshine and 

its dew, 
But sweeter far my fairest, wi' her een o' clearest 

blue ; 
I'll welcome hame my lassie, for she's been lang frae 

me, 
Ye'll get a blink o' beauty when ye my lassie see ! 






104 o! the gowan's in the glen. 

O ! wi' her I'd fondly stray far frae the city's din, 
Where the bonnie streamlets play, and the singin' 

burnies rin ; 
Where the laverock is piping his music in the cluds, 
And the blackbird is pouring his wild notes in the 

woods ! 

O ! her love is ever true, an' her heart is ever warm, 
Her smile to nature's loveliness it adds anither charm ; 
O ! the gowan's in the glen, an' the lily's on the lea. 
An' my heart is wi' my lassie, where'er my lassie be ! 



105 



AGAIN LET'S HAIL THE CHEERING 
SPRING.* 

Again let's hail the cheering spring 

That now returns, an' a' that ; 
The little birds now gladly sing 

Their artless notes, for a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Bleak winter's fled, an' a' that ; 
Nae mair we see the leafless tree, 

For verdure blooms ower a' that. 

The snawy glen an' gloomy fen, 

That dreary seemed, an' a' that, 
Hae now become the shepherd's home, 

Wha envies nane, for a' that 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Real grandeur we may ca' that ; 
Content does smile, an' fraud an' guile 

Ne'er enters there, for a' that. 

* This, and the three pieces which follow, are juvenile productions. 



106 AGAIN LET'S HAIL THE CHEERING SPRING. 

The primrose, frae its grassy bed, 

Adorns the banks, an' a 5 that ; 
The daisy lifts its crimson head 

Amang the braes, for a' that 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

For Nature's hand maks braw that ; 
Art still may try, but when will 't vie 

Wi' Nature's seP, in a' that ? 

The farmer now gars C( speed the plough," 

An' seed fu' thrang does saw that ; 
He dreads nae harms, nor war's alarms, 

For peace smiles sweet ower a' that. 
For a' that, an a' that, 

Lang may 't abide, for a' that: 
Now sword an' spear the ground uptear, 

As men of old foresaw that ! 

Lang may auld Scotland aye retain 

Her ancient worth, an' a' that ; 
Ilk knavish plot may she disdain, 

An' slavery keep awa' that 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Her rights there's nane shall thraw that : 
May peace an' wealth, an' joy an' health, 

Reign ower her plains, for a' that! 



107 



THE TRUMP OF WAR HATH CEASED TO 
BLOW. 

Tune— The White Cockade. 

The trump of war hath ceased to blow, 
And Britain has no more a foe ; 
The sword is sheathed that Scotia drew, 
That gleamed so red on Waterloo. 
That morn in darkness rose the sun, 
And darkly, too, our weapons shone ; 
And lightning's flash displayed to view 
The blood-stained field of Waterloo. 

At morn they rushed to meet the foe, 
But night beheld the warriors low ; 
At morn they marched o'er spangled dew, 
At night they bled on Waterloo. 



1 08 THE TRUMP OF WAR HATH CEASED TO BLOW. 

The shout of victory rose on high, 
But closed in death the victors lie ; 
Yet the sun shall take his last adieu, 
Ere the fame shall cease of Waterloo ! 

The trumpet sounds, but ne'er again 
Shall Scotia's warriors hear the strain ; 
They sleep, but not on their mountains blue, 
The heroes' bed is Waterloo ! 
Britannia weeps for many a son, 
And a wail is heard in Caledon 
For the gallant youths, so brave and true, 
Who, fighting, fell on Waterloo ! 



109 



BLITHE, BLITHE, WE'LL A' BE MERRY. 

Tune — Andro and his Cutty Gun. 

Blithe, blithe, we'll a' be merry, 
Let social harmony prevail ; 

Wha wad care for port or sherry, 
Whan they've Scotia's nappy ale ? 

It cheers the heart frae gloomy care, 

It gies new vigour to the mind ; 
It stilleth strife to rise nae mair, 

An' friendship's social link does bind. 
Blithe, blithe, &c. 

In days o' yore, how aft we've seen 

A bicker rouse a sang or tale ; 
Sae let us be as we hae been, 

For here's the nappy — here's the ale ! 
Blithe, blithe, &c. 



110 BLITHE, BLITHE, WE'LL a' BE MERRY. 

Here's to the land o' rock and stream, 
The land o' mountain, muir, and dale ; 

The land where freedom's star does gleam, 
The land o' cakes and nappy ale ! 

Blithe, blithe, we'll a' be merry, 
Let social harmony prevail; 

Wha wad care for port or sherry, 
Whan they've Scotia's nappy ale ? 



Ill 



PARODY. 

(Written when part of the Duty was taken off Whisky.) 

Scots wha hae the duties paid ; 
Scots wham whisky's aft made glad ; 
Welcome, for the duty's fled, 

And it shall be free ! 
Now's the time and now's the hour ! 
See the shades of evening lour ; 
See the streams of toddy pour — 

Pledge it three-times-three ! 

Wha wad be a brandy slave ? 
Wha wad shilpit claret lave ? 
Wha of rum wad ever rave ? 

When the whisky's free ! 
Wha for Scotia's ancient drink 
Will fill a bicker to the brink ? 
Scotsmen wake, or Scotsmen wink, 

Aquavitse aye for me ! 



112 PARODY. 

By taxation's woes and pains ! 
By the smuggler's ill-got gains ! 
We shall raise our wildest strains, 

For it shall be free ! 
Lay the big gin bottle low ! 
In the fire the port wine throw ! 
Let the tide of whisky flow ! 

Like liberty, aye free ! 



113 



THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER. 

'Tis the first rose of summer that ope's to my view, 
With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew ; 
It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne, 
'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone. 

O ! why, lovely stranger, thus early in bloom? 
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come ? 
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring, 
But tidings of summer the young roses bring. 

Thou fair gift of nature, I welcome the boon ; 
Was't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so 

soon? 
Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret ; for soon from the 

sky 
The lark shall repose where thy leaves withered lie. 

H 



1 14 aw a', ye catjld lovers ! 

! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er would'st 

decay, 
But, alas ! soon thouit perish and wither away ; 
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair, 
Yet I'll mourn, lonely rose-bud, when thou art not 

there, 



AWA', YE CAULD LOVERS! 

(Written to a Gaelic Air.) 

Aw a', ye cauld lovers ! what pleasure does't bring ? 
Ye seek na to taste o' the charms that ye sing ; 
Gie me the sweet lassie, baith modest an' free, 
The lassie that's kind is the lassie for me ! 

Would I hae a lassie, however sae fair, 
Wha, saving her beauty, could boast naething mair ? 
I'll tell ye, the lass that mine ain lass would be. 
The lassie that's kind is the lassie for me ! 



aw a', ye cauld lovers! 115 

A sprinklin 5 of modest wit, season'd wi' sense, 
I'd quarrel nae rneikle though she had the pence ! 
Nae doubt, had she nane, it were better, I say, 
But whan will folk get a' thing just as they'd hae ? 

A heart, at the sad tale of sorrow would mourn, 
An' dance wi' wild gladness when joy did return ; 
A cheek that is fair, and an e'e that is blue, 
I'll speak na o' beauty — I've felt it ere noo. 

Sic is the lassie I'd hae — wad ye ken ? 
Gude keep me frae wranglings an' j anglings o' men ! 
The dear ties o' love an' warm friendship be mine, 
Where manly hearts glow an' where lovely eyes 
shine. 

The sweetest wee flower that on earth ever grew, 
Wha'd prize sae its beauty gif nane durst it pu' ? 
An' O ! durst I pu' my ain floweret sae fair, 
I'd place't in my bosom, an' bid it grow there ! 

The saft showers o' love on its blossoms would fa', 
I'd tent it as suns do the roses that blaw : 
O ! gie me my lassie, baith modest an' free, 
The lassie that's kind is the lassie for me ! 



116 



THE BOATIE'S ROWING OWER THE 
DEER 

Tune — The Boatie Rows. 

The boatie's rowing ower the deep., 

An' hastening to the shore; 
O ! guard it frae ilk rocky steep, 

Or ocean's angry roar! 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows ashore; 
Lightsome be the sailor's heart, 

When a' his toils are o'er. 

The ship lies in the Roads o' Leith, 

Rich laden frae the sea. 
But Willie coming in the boat 

Is mair than gowd to me ! 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows ashore ; 
Lightsome be the sailor's heart, 

When a' his toils are o'er. 



THE BOATIE'S ROWING OWER THE DEEP. 117 

When winds blew an' the tempest roared, 

Wi' sleety blasts an' rain, 
I thought upon my Willie's ship, 

Far drifting ower the main : 
But the boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows ashore ; 
Lightsome be the sailor's heart, 

When a' his toils are o'er. 

But though the winds an' waves combine 

To gar the tempest roar, 
I carena now, let them rave on, 

Sin' he is safe on shore. 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows ashore ; 
Lightsome be the sailor's heart, 

When a' his toils are o'er. 



118 



AGAIN MY NATIVE COT APPEARS. 

Tune — My only Joe and Dearie, O I 

Again my native cot appears, 

My early haunts appear in view : 
How mony days, how mony years, 

Hae fled, sin 9 last I gazed on you ! 
The boniiie woods are waving green, 

An' flowers are blooming, just as fair 
As if the simmer aye had been, 

Sin' last I took my fareweel there I 

There stands the loch, as fresh an' clear, 

There blossoms still the hawthorn tree, 
But, ah ! where are the voices dear 

That 'neath its shade aye welcomed me ? 
The bumie rins as blithe alang 

As it was wont in days bygane, 
An', hark ! there's still the blackbird's sang* 

But, ah ! I'm listening till't my lane! 



AGAIN MY NATIVE COT APPEARS. 119 

How aft, in yonder plantin's glade, 

I've pondered mony an hour an' day ; 
An' aften, 'mang yon braes, I've strayed 

Wi' playmates, happy, young, and gay. 
An' did I their glad faces see, 

By sunny knowe or lanely glen, 
(For ilka spot is dear to me !) 

I'd think my boyhood come again ! 

How teems this hour wi' thoughts o' things 

Lang past, though crowding into mind ; 
What sad emotions memory brings, 

When nought save memory's left behind ! 
The birds, when simmer flees awa', 

A' sympathize in plaintive strain ; 
But wha marks here these tears that fa' 

For days lang fled, an' friends lang gane ! 



120 



DUMFERLINE TOUN. 

Tune — The bonniest Lass in a the Warld. 

O, Dumferline toun is a bonnie, bonnie toun, 

An' wha says that it isna bonnie? 
For gin we had again braw kings o' our ain, 

It would Hft up its head yet wi' ony. 
O, Dumferline toun is a bonnie, bonnie toun, 

An' it tells o' auld Scotland's grandeur; 
For within it, langsyne, kings " drank the bluid red 
wine/' 

While their queens 'mang its bonnie braes did 
wander. 

O, Dumferline toun, an' my ain native toun, 

Will ony ane daur to deride thee? 
Thou place of ancient name, which kings aye made 
their hame, 

And now they're a' sleeping beside thee ! 



DUMFERLINE TOUN. 121 

Brave Malcolm the sceptre, wi' Margaret, did sway 
In yonder palace, auld now and hoary ; 

An' there Bruce did ponder ower his country's wae, 
How he'd achieve her freedom, fame, and glory ! 

O, Dumferline toun, thou bonnie, bonnie toun, 

Wi' green woods thy valleys lining ; 
An' the sun shines sae gay on ilka turret grey, 

As if for thee alane he was shining. 
O, Dumferline toun, thou art still a bonnie toun, 

An' thy braes are as bonnie as ever ; 
But the gowan's pu'd nae mair by the princely 
bairnies fair, 

And our gallant chiefs hae left thee a' thegither. 

O, Dumferline toun, thou hast tint thy king an 5 
croun, 

An' thy queens nae langer would tarry ; 
But there's still a lovely queen near thy palace to be 
seen, 

An' I ca' her my bonnie " Queen Mary !" 
O, Dumferline toun, an' my Mary's toun, 

Though the fates hae caused us to sever, 
Let days be as I've seen, an' let Mary aye be queen, 

An' I'll be her subject for ever ! 



122 



MY LOVE IS NO FOR GOWD. 

Tune — Lucy Campbell's Deliyht. 

My love is no for gowd nor gear, 
An' neither is't for house nor Ian' ; 

It's a' for her, my charming fair, 
My bonnie blue-e'ed Mary Ann ! 

The snaw is white on Arthur's hill, 

On the loch below white swims the swan ; 

But Mary's hand is fairer still, 
The lily hand o' Mary Ann ! 

In flowery June the roses blaw, 

Their crimson leaves the saft winds fan ; 
But Mary's cheek wad shame them a', 

The bloomin' cheek o' Mary Ann ! 

I've speered at travellers, wha hae been 
Frae John-o'-Groat's-House to Japan, 

But fairer maid they ne'er hae seen 
Than bonnie blue-e'ed Mary Ann ! 



123 



BY ROSLIN'S ANCIENT TOWERS. 

Tune — Sae Flaxen were her Ringlets. 

By Roslin's ancient towers, 

Where Esk steals slowly to the sea, 
'Twas there ae morn in simmer, 

My bonnie lassie fled frae me. 
Nae smile then — -beguiled then 

A heart ower aften filled wi' care, 
But, eerie, an' weary, 

I sighed for her I saw nae mair: 
An' sought her 'mang the woods an' glens, 

Where bonnie wild flowers blooming sprang, 
An' wandered by the tinklin' burns 

That echoed ilka birdie's sang. 

I speered for ane whase beauty 
Nane could forget that ever saw, 

A form that had nae equal 
In lowly cot or lordly ha'. 



124 by roslin's ancient towers. 

A pleasure — past measure, 

Within her presence aye was found, 
Sae cheering — endearing, 

Was ilka smile she coost around. 
I said her een were saftly blue, 

Than jewels rare they brighter shone, 
But nane had seen a face sae fair, 

Though it seemed made for gazing on. 



At length, in yonder valley, 

To find her out I gat a sign, 
For, round her ivyed window, 

Birds sang mair sweet, flowers bloomed mair 
fine. 
There, peering — careering, 

The laverock waked the blushing day, 
Inviting — delighting, 

The blackbird sang his e'enin' lay. 
Twas there, in beauty's guise, I found 

The lass for whom a' else I'd tine ; 
An' now, on earth, what seek I mair ? 

I've found this bonnie lass o' mine ! 



125 



O GIN I HAD A KEEK1N' GLASS. 

Tune — Loch Erroch Side. 

gin I had a keekin' glass, 

1 then might see my bonnie lass ; 

gin I had a keekin 5 glass, 

To keek at my love's window. 

Her bonnie face I daurna spy, 
For cowart love has made me shy ; 

1 canna look as I gae by, 

Nor blink up to her window. 

Had she been only half sae fair, 
Ane might hae gazed wi' heedless air, 
But ae glance — I could thole nae mair— 
Clean killed me at her window. 



126 O GIN I HAD A KEEKIN' GLASS. 

But yet the sight I wadna shun 
For a' that e'er was looked upon; 
Nae Indian worshippeth the sun 
As I'd do at her window. 

Her neck, sae fair, the lily dings, 
An' round it mony a jet lock hings, 
Her face wad draw a sigh frae kings, 

Gif they gaed by her window. 
O gin I had a keekin' glass, 
To see my bonnie charming lass ; 
O gin I had a keekin' glass, 

To keek at my love's window. 



127 



LET GALLED GREECE. 

(written for burns' anniversary, 1828.) 
Tune — Whistle oiver the Lave ot. 

Let galled Greece an' fettered Spain, 
An' ither lands enslaved, complain ; 
Gie us that spot — for it's our ain — 
They ca' it Caledonia. 

Our fathers' bluid bought us that land, 
Whilk nane shall e'er wrench from our hand, 
For Burns bade ilka Scotsman stand 
Or fa' wi' Caledonia. 

Hail to the day that gave him birth ! 
Be it aye marked for social mirth ; 
Let latest ages o' the earth 

Aye hail't in Caledonia! 



128 LET GALLED GREECE. 

Hail to the land from whence he sprung ! 
The land that's named in ilka tongue ; 
Where Bruce has fought, an' Bursts has sung, 
The land o' Caledonia. 

Waes me ! puir Scotia, mony a day 
Thy face was dowie, douf, an' wae ; 
Few o' thy minstrels tuned a lay 
In praise o' Caledonia. 

Thy warriors fought — but wha could tell 
How beauty wept when lovers fell ? 
Till Burns awoke the harp's wild swell, 
An' sang o' Caledonia ! 



© 



His sangs and tales breathed Nature's lair, 
'Bout blithsome lads an' lasses fair ; 
An' nappy, famed for killin' care, 
When brewed in Caledonia. 

He sang — for weel the minstrel knew 
Hk valley green an' mountain blue, 
Whaur flowers before unheeded grew, 
A' dear to Caledonia. 



LET GALLED GREECE. 129 

But, ah ! how quickly ceased the strain, 
Begun in care and closed in pain : 
It paused — then faintly thrilled again, 
An' whispered — " Caledonia P 5 

'Twas he that raised our country's name, 
We owe to him our highest fame ; 
For, when we're mentioned wi' acclaim, 
Tis— "Burns an' Caledonia!" 



130 



JANET AN' ME. 

Tune — Fd rather hae a Piece than a Kiss o' my Joe. ■ 

O, wha are sae happy as me an' my Janet ? 

O, wha are sae happy as Janet an' me ? 
We're baith turning auld, and our walth is sune 
tauld, 

But contentment ye'll find in our cottage sae wee. 
She spins the lang day when I'm out wi' the owsen, 

She croons i' the house while I sing at the plough ; 
And aye her blithe smile welcomes me frae my toil, 

As up the lang glen I come wearied I trow ! 






When I'm at a beuk she is mending the cleadin', 
She's darnin' the stockings when I sole the shooh; 

Our cracks keep us cheery — we work till we're 
weary, 
An' syne we sup sowans when ance we are done. 



JANET AN' ME. 131 

She's bakin' a scon while I'm smokin' my cutty, 
When I'm i' the stable she's milkin' the kye ; 

I envy not kings when the gloamin' time brings 
The canty fireside to my Janet an' I. 

Aboon our auld heads we've a decent clay biggin', 

That keeps out the cauld when the simmer's awa'; 
We've twa wabs o' linen, o' Janet's ain spinnin', 

As thick as doug-lugs, an' as white as the snaw ! 
We've a kebbuck or twa, an' some meal i' the girnel, 

Yon sow is our ain that plays grumph at the door ; 
An' something, I've guessed, 's in yon auld painted 
kist, 

That Janet, fell bodie, 's laid up to the fore ! 

Nae doubt, we have haen our ain sorrows and 
troubles, 

Aften times pouches toom, and hearts fu' o' care : 
But still, wi' our crosses, our sorrows an' losses, 

Contentment, be thankit, has aye been our share ! 
I've an auld roosty sword, that was left by my father, 

Whilk ne'er shall be drawn till our king has a fae ; 
We hae friends ane or twa, that aft gie us a ca', 

To laugh when we're happy, or grieve when we're 
wae. 



132 JANET AN 5 ME. 

The laird may hae gowd mair than schoolmen can 
reckon, 

An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o ? his e'e ; 
His lady, aye braw, may sit in her ha', 

But are they mair happy than Janet an' me ? 
A' ye, wha ne'er kent the straught road to be happy, 

Wha are na content wi' the lot that ye dree, 
Come down to the dwallin' of whilk I've been tellin', 

Ye'se learn't, by lookin' at Janet an' me ! 



133 



'TWAS NOT THE SONG, 'TWAS NOT THE 
DANCE. 

Tune — Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff. 
New Music by E. Platt. 

'Twas not the song, 'twas not the dance, 

That charmed me in the pictured hall, 
But 'twas the light of her, whose glance 

Awakened joy and love in all. 
O ! she was lovely as the spring, 

When sun and song make glad the sky — 
Fair as the young rose blossoming, 

When summer's freshening breath is nigh. 

And like the first far streak of light, 
That tells to morn of coming day, 

So beamed her eye, serenely bright, 
A pure and holy, heavenly ray ! 



134 



And every word that trembling fell, 
In softest music, from her tongue, 

Appeared as if, where angels dwell, 
A minstrel angel raptured sung ! 

As dew of spring to flower of morn, 

Or summer shower to leafv tree, 
Or hope's bright ray to heart forlorn^ 

So her bright presence gladdened me. 
The music's fled, the dance is o'er, 

The song has melted into air — 
But round my heart, and in its core, 

The fair one dwells that charmed me there ! 



135 



FLOW, GENTLE STREAMLET. 

(WRITTEN FOR THE MUSICAL SCRAP-BOOK, TO THE GERMAN 

air — D robin im IValden.^) 






Flow, gentle streamlet, brightly and clear, 
Sweet be thy music, spring time is near ; 
Primrose and harebell wake from their dream- 
Murmur in gladness, thou lovely stream. 

Soft from the mountain light breezes blow, 
Pure is the fountain — sparkling its flow ; 
Greenwood and valley all blossom gay — 
Fairest of streamlets, murmur away ! 

Summer in sunshine comes from its bowers, 
Welcomed with music, followed by flowers, 
Mantled in robe of verdant array — 
Fairest of streamlets, murmur away ! 



136 



I DREAM NOT NOW. 

Song in the " Mountain Maid." 

I dream not now — the charm is fled. 

And now I wake to woe ; 
For him I hold the same as dead. 

Whence all my life did flow. 
I dream not now — yet, oh ! how bright 

The fleeting phantom shone ; 
It came in joy and went in light — 

The lovely vision's gone ! 

If love is such a pleasing dream, 
Why does it pass so soon ? — 

A flower of morn — why does it seem 
To wither ere its noon ? 



I DREAM NOT NOW. 137 

Or rather since its soul's away — 

Bright gem of heavenly dew — 
Why lonely do I ling'ring stay, 

Nor fade and wither too ? 

Alas ! the green leaf braves the blast, 

When summer breezes blow ; 
But when the wind of autumn's past, 

You mark it sered and low ! 
And now since Love's young summer's o'er, 

Which nought to me could save, 
Soon winter with its hollow roar 

Shall murmur o'er my grave ! f 



138 



AWA', YE FLAUNTING DAYS O' SPRING. 

Tune — I do confess thou art saefair. 

Aw a', ye flaunting days o' spring, 

An' summer, wi' your hours o' bloom, 
To me nor hope nor joy ye bring, 

For a' is grief and a' is gloom ! 
For aye when these fair seasons come, 

With wild flowers green and flowerets gay, 
To where the Highland red-deer roam, 

My bonnie lassie hies away ! 

My heart is by the mountain steep, 

My heart is in the Highland glen, 
Or down the valley, winding deep, 

In sunless grandeur, darkening ben ! 
O ! there my fairest strays, I ken, 

In beauty bright and fancy free ; 
O ! for sic happy days, as when, 

'Mang Lawland braes, she strayed wi' me ! 



aw a', ye flaunting days o' spring. 139 

Ye'll ken her smile an' witching glance, 

Where beauty reigns in sovereign sway ; 
Or when she mingles in the dance, 

Or raptured lists the vocal lay. 
Or when the sun, at close o' day, 

Saft sinks beneath the western sky, 
When forth the blooming maidens stray, 

Ye'll mark my bosom's dearest joy ! 

O ! tent her weel, where'er she gangs, 

By streamlet clear, or valley green, 
Awake your sweetest minstrel sangs, 

Ye'll sing to few sae fair, I ween. 
By ilka star that blinks at e'en, 

And yon bright sun, that shines by day, 
She'll live for aye my bosom queen, 

The bonnie lass that's far away ! 



140 



O! COULD I LOSE THE POWER OF 
THOUGHT. 

Tune — Gramachree. 
New Music by E. Platx. 

! could I lose the power of thought, 
I still might happy be ; 

At least this grief might leave my heart, 

Could busy memory flee. 
And yet, though anguish wrings my soul, 

Would I the task forego 
Of counting o'er each moment passed 

With her who caused my woe ? 

1 loved as none have ever loved, 

Whate'er their love might be, 
Else parting with her had not wrung 

Such bitter pangs from me. 
Yet musing on what might have been, 

I dream my time away ; 
"lis idle as my early dreams, 

But, ah ! 'tis not so gay. 



O ! COULD I LOSE THE POWER OF THOUGHT. 141 

If aught of pleasure yet is mine, — 

A pleasure mixed with pain, — 
'Tis pondering on the days gone by. 

Which ne'er can come again ! 
When she, all lovely as she's still, 

Blushed when I called her fair ; 
And if she never bade me hope, 

She ne'er bade me despair. 

For thee, dear maid, I fondly sighed, 

For thee I now repine, 
Since Fate has sworn, in solemn words, 

Thou never canst be mine ! 
Yet fondly do I love thee still, 

Though hope ne'er mingles there ; 
A wilder passion sways me now — 

'Tis love joined to despair. 

Farewell a world, whose gayest scenes 

No pleasure bring to me ; 
I'd hate its smile, did I not think 

It may give joy to thee. 
But if thou ever lovedst like me, 

No joy will light thine eye, 
Save transient gleams, like wintry suns^ 

Short glancing in the sky. 



142 



TENTING SHEEP BY MUIR AND GLEN. 

Tune — Ower the Muir amang the Heather. 

Tenting sheep by muir and glen, 
Is a' my airt — I ken nae ither — 

Save courting o' my bonnie Jean, 

Amang the fragrant blooming heather. 

O ! the bonnie blooming heather, 
O ! the bonnie blooming heather ; 

Content is mair than kings can buy, 
An' yet 'tis found amang the heather ! 

Her hair is like the glints o' gowd, 
The sun lets fa' in simmer weather ; 

Her face would shame the sweetest flower 
That blaws amang the blooming heather. 



TENTING SHEEP BY MUIR AND GLEN. 143 

Her glancing een — sic ne'er were seen — 
They've clean bewitched me a' thegither ; 

An' aye sae slee they blink on me, 
Whene'er we meet amang the heather. 

I sing o' her, frae rising sun, 

Till e'enin' draw the cluds thegither, 

An' then I dream the nicht awa', 

Till she, wi' morn, come ower the heather. 

I've neither gowd nor warld's gear, 
Save owsen twa, left by my father ; 

An' yon wee cot, down by the burn, 

That flings its reek outowre the heather. 

But Jeanie's love is mair than gowd, 

Her heart worth kingdoms tied thegither ; 

Gie me that heart — sae void o' art — 
The heart I fand amang the heather. 

O ! the bonnie blooming heather, 
O ! the bonnie blooming heather ; 

Content is mair than kings can buy, 
An' yet 'tis found amang the heather ! 



144 



BONNIE PEGGIE GORDON. 

Tune — Highland Harry back again. 

Now simmer walks in robes o' green, 
On ilka flowery bank she's seen, 
Then come, my love, thou'rt simmer's queen, 
Bonnie Peggie Gordon. 

We'll wander where the primrose springs, 
"Where the rose-bud dewy hings, 
Where the bumie murmuring sings, 

" Bonnie Peggie Gordon !" 

I'll lead thee down yon sunny lea, 
Where the scented hawthorn tree 
Sheds its fragrant sweets for thee, 

Bonnie Peggie Gordon. 



BONNIE PEGGIE GORDON. 145 

The bee has left its foggy den, 

An' comes- — O ! weel its notes I ken — 

Saft humming frae the moorland glen, 

" Bonnie Peggie Gordon !" 

O, saft's the burnie's rocky fa', 

An' saft's the winds that ower it blaw, 

But love has tales mair saft than a', 

Bonnie Peggie Gordon. 

Down yon birken shaws amang, 
Where the blackbird wakes his sang, 
There, my fairest, wilt thou gang ? 

Bonnie Peggie Gordon. 

The flowery earth, the sunny sky, 

May please the sense, may charm the eye, 

But to my heart nought gies sic joy 

As bonnie Peggie Gordon. 



146 



WRITE, WRITE, TOURIST AND 
TRAVELLER. 

T dne — Blue Bonnets over the Border. \ \ 

(Published in Blackwood's Magazine, January 1828, Nodes 
Ambrosiance, No. XXXV.) 

Write, write, tourist and traveller, 

Fill up your pages and write in good order; . 

Write, write, scribbler and driveller, 

Why leave such margins ? — come nearer the border. 

Many a laurel dead flutters around your head, 

Many a tome is your memento mori ! 

Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and 

pen, 
Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory. 



WRITE; WRITE; TOURIST AND TRAVELLER. 147 

Come from your rooms where the farthing wick's 

burning, 
Come with your tales full of gladness or woe ; 
Come from your small beer to vinegar turning, 
Come where the Port and the Burgundy flow ! 

Fame's trump is sounding, topics abounding, 
Leave, then, each scribbler, your high attic story ; 
Critics shall many a day speak of your book and say, 
" He wrote for the snuff-shop, he wrote not for 
glory !" 

Write, write, tourist and traveller, 

Fill up your pages and write in good order ; 

Write, write, scribbler and driveller, 

WTiy leave such margins ?— come nearer the border. 



148 



THE SAFT SIMMER E'ENIN' IS GLIDING 
AWA'. 

Tune— -Hey, bonnie Lassie, blink over the. Burn. 

The saft simmer e'enin' is gliding awa', 
And a' thing is still, baith in cot and in ha', 
There's peace for ilk bosom and sleep for ilk e'e, 
But Jeanie, young Jeanie, has stown them frae me ! 

And yet I might sleep wi' a heart free o' care, 
For Jeanie's as true as she's bonnie and fair ; 
But for joy at the thocht, I'm whiles like to dee, 
That Jeanie, young Jeanie, my ain bride sail be ! 

If I haena walth, I've as little to tine, 
It's maybe as weel that walth isna mine ; 
'Twould only divide the love hers a' suld be ; 
O ! Jeanie, young Jeanie's the treasure for me ! 



THE SAFT SIMMER E ENIN IS GLIDING AW A.' 149 

It isna aye simmer when I'm on the hill, 

An' winter is cauld, an' frosty winds chill ; 

But this cheers my heart, when the snaw's on the lea, 

That Jeanie, young Jeanie, my ain bride sail be ! 

I'll pit her sweet name in some simple bit sang, 
An' sing't to mysel' a' the simmer day lang ; 
My skill is but sma', but the burden sail be, — 
u O ! Jeanie, young Jeanie's the treasure for me !" 

I'll big a wee housie, far up in yon glen, 

No mony will see it, no mony sail ken ; 

But when the brown leaves fa' frae yon birken tree, 

O ! Jeanie, young Jeanie, my ain bride sail be ! 



150 



A BUMPER TO THEE! 

(this song and the seven following are published in 

M'LEOD's VOLUME OF "ORIGINAL SCOTTISH MELODIES," FOR- 
3IERLY ALLUDED TO.) 

A bumper to thee ! a bumper to thee ! 

A cup to the fair, and a health to the free ; 

O ! this toast hath a spell, we shall quaff it with glee, 

A bumper to thee ! a bumper to thee ! 

Let the wine mantle high in a goblet of joy, 
Be it Alicant bright or Burgundy famed, 

O ! my soul, like the cup, to my lip shall spring up, 
When friendship and thou in a bumper are named! 
A bumper to thee, &c. 

O ! the Arno rolls deep through Italia's gay land, 
And fair on its banks grows the wide-spreading 
vine ; 
In the juice of that vine we shall pledge heart and 
hand, 
To bright eyes that sparkle, as sparkles the wine ! 
A bumper to thee, &c. 



A BUMPER TO THEE ! 151 

As the Arab, while wandering the desert along, 
Forgets half his toil if a streamlet he find, 

So, in life's dreary waste, fill a cup deep and strong, 
And sorrow and care we shall fling to the wind, 
In a bumper to thee, &c. 

Since the past is away, let this night be our day, 
Nor brood on to-morrow to waken a sigh ; 

For to souls, if there's bliss, 'tis a moment like this, 
When cups flow with wine, and bosoms with joy ! 

A bumper to thee ! a bumper to thee ! 

A cup to the fair, and a health to the free ; 

OI this toast hath a spell, we shall quaff it with glee, 

A bumper to thee ! a bumper to thee ! 



152 



THE HAPPY DAYS O' YOUTH. 

! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by, 
And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky ; 
An' whaur shall we shelter frae its storms when they 

blaw, 
When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa' ? 

They said that wisdom came wi' manhood's riper 

years, 
But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears : 
O ! I'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine, 
For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne, 

1 canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn, 
For the blithe happy days that never can return : 
When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the 

tongue, 
An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young. 






THE HAPPY DAYS o' YOUTH. 153 

O ! the bonnie waving broom, whaur aften we did 

meet, 
Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our 

feet: i 

The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee, 
As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk tree. 

O ! the sunny days o 5 youth, they couldna aye 

remain, 
There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain; 
Sae fareweel happy days, an' fareweel youthfu' glee, 
The young may court your smiles, but ye're gane 

frae me. 






154 



MARY'S BOWER. 

The mavis sings on Mary's bower, 

The laverock in the sky ; 
An' a' is fair round Mary's bower, 

An' a' aboon is joy ! 
But sad's the gloom in Mary's bower, 

Though a' without be gay ; 
Nae music comes to greet the morn, 

Nae smile to glad the day. 

Her lover left young Mary's bower, 

His ship has crossed the main ; 
There's waefu' news in Mary's bower, 

He ne'er returns again. 
A breaking heart's in Mary's bower, 

A wasting form is there ; 
The glance has left that e'e sae blue, 

The rose that cheek sae fair. 



mary's bower. 155 

The mavis flees frae Mary's bower, 

The laverock quits the sky ; 
An' simmer sighs o'er Mary's bower, 

For coming winter's nigh. 
The snaw fa's white on Mary's bower, 

The tempests loudly rave ; 
The flowers that bloomed round Mary's bower 

Now wither on her grave ! 



156 




ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS. 

Gather in, gather in, ane an' a', an 5 a', 
Gather in, gather in, ane an' a' ; 

This night, ever dear, 

Claims a cup an' a tear 
To the memory of Burns that's awa', awa' 
To the memory of Burns that's awa' ! 

Auld Scotland's had bards ane or twa, or twa, 
Auld Scotland's had bards ane or twa ; 

But the minstrel that sang 

Coila's wild braes amang, 
O ! he was the sweetest of a', of a', 
O ! he was the sweetest of a' ! 

He came like the flowerets that blaw, that blaw, 
He came like the flowerets that blaw; 

But his bright opening spring 

Nae simmer did bring, 
For soon, soon, he faded awa', awa', 
For soon, soon, he faded awa' ! 



O, MY LOVE, NIGHT IS COME. 157 

But short though he sang 'mang us a', us a', 
But short though he sang 'mang us a', 

His name from our heart 

Will never depart, 
And his fame it shall ne'er fade awa' 5 awa', 
And his fame it shall ne'er fade awa' ! 



O, MY LOVE, NIGHT IS COME. 

O, my love, night is come, the soft night is come, 

And fled is the glory and splendour of day ; 
The bright flaming sun, with the daylight, hath 
gone 
To his palace of ocean, love, far, far away. 
O, night, my love, night ! to a lover is dear, 

When the wind is all hushed, and the moon in 
the sky ; 
Then, haste to thy lattice, love, quickly appear, 
With the smile on thy cheek, and the glance in 
thine eve. 



158 



O, my love, ever gay is the clear noon of day, 
With the bird's happy song and the bloom of the 
rose ; 
But, at night, roses weep, and the little birds sleep, 
All still as the green leaves on which they repose. 
Yet night, my love, night ! O ! 'tis dearer to me, 
Though the flowers are in tears, that the sun does 
not shine ; 
For thou art the floweret I ever would see. 
And the music I'd hear is that sweet voice of 
thine ! 



159 



THE BRIGHT SUN O' SIMMER. 

The bright sun o' simmer but lately was shining, 
The birds sang in joy, and the earth blossomed 
green ; 
And hope spoke of days without care or repining., 
Like those that in dreams o 5 my childhood I've 
seen. 
But now the brown leaves o' the forest are fa'ing, 
And quickly the sun hastens down through the 
sky; 
The winds frae the caverns of winter are blawing, 
They tell me that simmer, like youth, has gone by. 

O ! where are the fond hearts o' life's sunny morning? 

Nae mair by the greenwood or valley they're seen : 
They Ve perished, like flowerets the fair earth adorn- 
ing* 

As if childhood and young simmer never had been, 



160 



And where is the music, the joy, and the gladness, 
That swelled through the grove a' the lang simmer 
day? 

Alas ! a' is fled, and my heart's filled wi' sadness, 
For the music o' youth, too, hath melted away ! 

O ! farewell, ye flowerets, the fairest an' brightest, 

That sprung on the mountain, or bloomed on the 
lea ; 
And farewell, ye fond hearts, the warmest and 
lightest, 

Nae mair ye return to charm nature an' me. 
And welcome bleak winter, wi' days wild and dreary, 

For the blasts of misfortune have left me forlorn; 
And my soul it is sad, an' my spirit is weary, 

Wi' pondering on joys fled that ne'er can return. 



161 



O ! STRIKE THE WILD HARP. 

O ! strike the wild harp, and its chords let them 

swell, 
The deeds and the fame of our fathers to tell ; 
When red was the fight, by land or by sea, 
They fought as the brave, or fell as the free ! 

They crouch'd not from danger, they shrunk not 

from pain, 
When bold hearts were needed our freedom to gain ! 
The watchword was still, and it ever shall be — 

4 7 

To fight as the brave, or fall as the free ! 

They join'd heart to heart, and they link'd hand to 
hand, 

Together to fall, or together to stand ; 

And woe to the foe who had courage to dare, 

Wlien swords flashed revenge, and eyes struck de- 
spair ! 



162 the exile's song. 

Old Scotland ! loved country — our own native land, 
May peace guard thy mountains, and freedom thy 

strand ; 
But war let it come, or by land or by sea, 
We'll fight like our fathers, or fall as the free ! f 






THE EXILE'S SONG. 

Oh ! why left I my hame ? 

Why did I cross the deep ? 
Oh ! why left I the land 

Where my forefathers sleep ? 
I sigh for Scotia's shore, 

And I gaze across the sea, 
But I canna get a blink 

O' my ain countrie ! 

The palm-tree waveth high, 
And fair the myrtle springs ; 

And, to the Indian maid, 
The bulbul sweetly sings. 



the exile's song. 163 

But I dinna see the broom 

Wi' its tassels on the lea, 
Nor hear the lintie's sang 

O' my ain countrie ! 

Oh ! here no Sabbath bell 

Awakes the Sabbath morn, 
Nor song of reapers heard 

Amang the yellow corn : 
For the tyrant's voice is here, 

And the wail of slaverie ; 
But the sun of freedom shines 

In my ain countrie ! 

s 

There's a hope for every woe, 

And a balm for every pain, 
But the first joys o' our heart 

Come never back again. 
There's a track upon the deep, 

And a path across the sea ; 
But the weary ne'er return 

To their ain countrie ! 



164 



I'VE AYE BEEN FOU SIN' THE YEAR 
CAM' IN. 

Tune — The Laird o' Cockpen. 

I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in, 
I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ; 
It's what wi' the brandy, an' what wi' the gin, 
I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ! 

Our Yule friends they met, and a gay stoup we 

drank, 
The bicker gaed round, and the pint stoup did clank ; 
But that was a' naething, as shortly ye'll fin' — 
I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ! 

i 
Our auld timmer clock, wi' thorl an' string, 

Had scarce shawn the hour whiik the new year did 

bring, 

Whan friends an' acquantance cam' tirl at the pin — 

An' I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ! 



iVe aye been fou sin' the year cam' in. 165 

My auld aunty Tibbie cam' ben for her cap, 
Wi' scon in her hand, an' cheese in her lap, 
An' drank — a gude New Year to kith an' to kin — 
Sae I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ! 

My strong brither Sandy cam' in frae the south — 
There's some ken his mettle, but nane ken his 

drouth ! — 
I brought out the bottle — losh ! how he did grin ! — * 
I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ! 

Wi' feasting at night, and wi' drinking at morn, 
Wi' here tak' a kaulker, an' there tak' a horn, 
I 've gatten baith doited, an' donner't, an' blin' — 
For I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ! 

I sent for the doctor, an' bade him sit down, 
He felt at my hand, an' he straiket my crown : 
He ordered a bottle — but it turned out gin ! — 
Sae I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ! 

The Sunday bell rang, an' I thought it as weel 
To slip into the kirk, to steer clear o' the de'il ; 
But the chiel at the plate fand a groat left behin' — 
Sae I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ! 



166 i've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in. 

'Tis Candlemas time, an' the wee birds o' spring 
Are chinning an' chirping as if they wad sing ; 
While here I sit bousing — 'tis really a sin ! — 
I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ! 

The last breath o' winter is soughing awa' ? 
An' sune down the valley the primrose will blaw ; 
A douce sober life I maun really begin, 
For I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in ! 



167 



AGAIN THE CIRCLING MARCH OF 
TIME* 



(written for the centenary or THE grand lodge of 

SCOTLAND, 30TH NOVEMBER 1836.) 

Tune — Willie was a Wanton Wag. 

Again the circling March of Time 

Brings round the glad, the glorious day, 
That gave to Masonry Sublime 

A brighter flame, and purer ray ; 
And though the many be away, 

Who first the dawning light did see, 
A numerous band is here to pay 

High honour unto Masonry ! 



* This, and the three Masonic Lyrics, were composed for the occasions to 
which they refer. The first was written at the request of the Grand Lodge of 
Scotland, for the centenary meeting, at which the author had the honour of 
being appointed Poet Laureate to the Craft for Scotland. 



168 AGAIN THE CIRCLING MARCH OF TIME. 

We bow not to a lowly shrine, — 

We mix not in a Sendee Mean, — 
That Sacred Light that here does shine, 

The Peasant and the Prince have seen ! 
And while, in spring, the woods are green, 

Or summer decks with flowers the lea, 
That lambent flame shall burn, I ween, 

The glorious Light of Masonry ! 

'Tis not in goblets mantling high, 

Which wealth, not worth, may still command; 
Nor in the giddy tide of joy, 

That Masonry does take its stand ! 
But ours, the social generous band, — 

The only tie whose link makes free, — 
Where heart to heart, and hand to hand. 

Proclaim the badge of Masonry ! 

To raise the weak, restrain the strong ; 

To chase the tear from beauty's eye : 
To aid the right, and check the wrong ; 

And bid the weary cease to sigh. 
To soothe the orphan's mournful cry, 

A Brother help, where'er he be, 
To love all men beneath the sky, 

This is the bond of Masonry ! 



AGAIN THE CIRCLING MARCH OF TIME. 1 69 

One Hundred Years ! — all, all, are fled, 

Those men of might and dauntless brow ! 
Still Masonry can boast a Head, — 

A St Clair then, a Ramsay now ! 
With such bold spirits at the prow, 

Our bark shall bravely ride the sea ; 
Nor shall her flag to any bow, — 

The pendant of high Masonry. f 



170 



KNIGHT TEMPLAR'S SONG. 

A lowly Pilgrim, weak and worn, 

Would fain approach that Temple high, 
Which stands 'mong airy clouds upborne, 

Unseen by vile or vulgar eye ; 
Where, in that palace of the sky, 

A thousand heavenly sights are seen, 
Where Truth presides in majesty, 

And Love — all lovely — reigns as queen ! 

" How would he climb that giddy steep ? — 

Knows he the dangers of the way ? 
The hill is high, the valley deep, 

That lead from night to glorious day ! 
Where is his trust, and whence his stay ? 

Hath he a spirit meekly given, 
To leave the clods of kindred clay, 

And cross the Archway path to Heaven ?" 



KNIGHT TEMPLAR'S SONG. 171 

With Brothers of the Sacred Light 

He fears not in their steps to go ; 
And glad would leave the gloom of night, 

To where the beams of morning glow ! 
For though, o'er mountains clad with snow, 

'Mid darkness he is doomed to stray, 
Still Burnes* the upward track will show, 

And Ramsay| he shall lead the way ! 

" Then Pilgrim mount, nor fear to climb, 

Thy heart is good, thy courage strong ; 
Up ! to the awful height sublime, 

The Temple and its Priests among ! 
Thy steps we'll cheer with wine and song, 

And words that tell the soul is free : 
Up ! Pilgrim, up ! thou'lt reach, ere long, 

The high Mont Blanc of Masonry ! 

" 'Tis done ! now sunshine lights the sky, 
And gladness takes the place of woe ; 
Awake the harp, and sound it high, 
Let mirth and all its music flow. 

* Dr James Burnes, Provincial Grand Master for the Western Provinces 
of India, Grand Constable of the Order in Scotland, and Prior of the Canon- 
gate Kilwinning Templars— a Brother to whom Masonry owes much, both in 
this country and in the East, whither he has lately departed. 

t The Right Hon. Lord Ramsay, now Earl of Dalhousie, Grand Master 
Mason of Scotland. 



172 AGAIN LET US WELCOME. 

Here flowers that wither not shall grow, 
And buds shall bloom that will not die : 

This is the land of Light ! — below 

Dark storms and low'ring tempests lie !" 



AGAIN LET US WELCOME THIS 
BLITHE HAPPY DAY. 

(written for, and sung at, the grand lodge, at the 
festival of st andrew, november 30, 1837.) 

Tune — Meeting of the Waters. 

Again let us welcome this blithe happy day, 
That true Scottish Masons will honour for aye ; 
And though from their country our Brothers may! 

roam, 
This day will awaken up kindred and home. 
Oh, this day will awaken up kindred and home. 



AGAIN LET US WELCOME. 173 

And where is the desert or surf-beaten shore 
Not travers'd by Brothers, — we fondly adore : 
Though absent afar, yet their heart we may claim, 
For absent or present, they're ever the same ! 
For absent or present, they're ever the same ! 

As far as St Lawrence rolls mighty and deep, 

To where the blue waves of the bright Ganges 

sleep, 
'Mong the fair groves of Italy, or bleak Zembla's 

snow, 
"t St Andrew" and " Scotland," in bumpers shall 

flow! 
" St Andrew" and " Scotland," in bumpers shall 

flow ! 

Hail ! land of our fathers, — of mountain and glen, — 
Of soft blooming Maidens, and true-hearted Men, 
Oh ! long may thy Thistle a dear emblem be 
Of Liberty's birth-place, the home of the free ! 
Of Liberty's birth-place, the home of the free ! 

And ne'er did the Thistle,— fond type of the 

brave, 
More flourish in splendour — or more proudly wave 






174 AGAIN LET US WELCOME. 

With bosom of purple, and leaves ever green, 
Than now when it blossoms for Scotland's Fair 

Queen ! 
Than now when it blossoms for Scotland's Fair 

Queen ! 

Victoria ! High Princess ! Oh ! where is the band, 
Through all thy dominions — the length of the land ! 
In devotion more deep — or in service more free, 
Than the Masons of Scotland are, lov'd Queen, to 

thee! 
Than the Masons of Scotland are, lov'd Queen, to 

thee ! f 



175 



ANTHEM. 



(SUNG AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, EDINBURGH, ON THE OCCASION 
OF THE BENEFIT FOR THE FREEMASONS* SCHOOL FOR FEMALE 
CHILDREN, 9TH FEBRUARY 1838.) 

Tune — God save the Queen. 

Hail to the Mystic Band, 
Join'd here with heart and hand, 

In love to all. 
Long may their Watchword be, — 
Freedom and Charity, 
Fond links of Masonry, 

That ne'er shaU fall. 

Not temples tow'ring high, 
Nor domes that touch the sky, 

Alone they prize. 
Theirs is a nobler sphere, 
To love, to virtue dear, 
To chase the fallen tear 

From weeping eyes. 



176 ANTHEM. 

Proud domes shall fade away. 
And temples shall decay ; 

But this shall stand. 
Truth, — badge of Liberty — 
And glorious Charity, 
High bond of Masonry — 

O'er every land ! 

Hail ! Light from highest Heaven, 
Darkness from earth is driven, 

When thou dost shine. 
Many shall mark thy ray — 
Dawn of a brighter day, 
That lights the Orphan's way 

To virtue's shrine. 



ITi 



SONG IN THE PLAY OF "MONSIEUR 
JACQUES:' 

My Marianne ! why comes she not ? — 
She set me from my dungeon free, 

And bade me quickly cross the wave, 
And said, My love, I'll follow thee ! 

My Marianne ! — she does not come, 
Though twenty years have passed away, 

Since at my prison door she stood, 
And thus in joyful words did say — 

Oh ! fly to yonder land, for there 
A father's vengeance may not flee ; 

Oh ! fly, my love, the light bark waits, 
And quickly I will follow thee ! 

Sometimes I think I see her bark 

Come dancing o'er the booming main ; 

But soon the vision disappears — 
'Tis but a phantom of the brain ! 

M 



17 8 MY MARIANNE ! 

My Marianne ! — she does not come, 

Though flowers have fallen and years have fled, 

Since my sweet flower, beneath the tower, 
With tears of joy thus fondly said — 

Oh ! fly, my love, my father sleeps, 

My gondola is on the shore ; 
Twice shall yon moon not light the deep, 

When we shall meet to part no more ! 

Alas ! my frenzied brain it burns, 

For many a moon has lit the sky, 
And yet she comes not o'er the wave, 

With rapture to these arms to fly ! t 



179 



THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 



O ! the lily of the valley ! it blooms in beauty fair, 
And minds me of the sunny hours, when life was 

free of care, 
When far adown the sleeping glen I strayed in happy 

glee, 
The long, long summer day was mine, but not too 

long for me ! 

O ! the lily of the valley ! it comes in gladsome joy, 
Recalling all the golden dreams that memory lets 

not die ; 
And though in clouds the evil days slow gather in 

their gloom, 
My heart leaps back to joyous morns beside this 

flow'ret's bloom. 



180 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 

O ! the lily of the valley ! the songs have passed away 
That gladdened, by the voice of streams, the landscape 

smiling gay ; 
The music of the woods is fled, the lays of youth are 

o'er, 
And only thou, at memory's call, lost harmonies 

restore, 

! the lily of the valley ! how fleet the hours did 

flee, 
When, heedless as the streamlet's course, I ran in 

quest of thee ; 
And still, though anxious days must come, and many 

heavy woes, 

1 hail thee as the fairest flower that in the valley 

blows, f 



181 



YESTREEN I SLEPT. 



Tune — Embro* Katie. 



Yestreen I slept, an' dreamed of her 

Wha aften keeps the sleep frae me ; 
I thought we met in some bright land, 

Some holy land where angels be ! 
For every face we there did see 

Was dimmed by neither woe nor care, 
And harps woke heaven's high minstrelsy. 

Because my love was listening there J 

She seemed as lovely as she is, 
And as bewitching she did seem : 

I thought her mine, ah ! cruel bliss, 

This might have shown me 'twas a dream ! 



1 82 YESTREEN I SLEPT, 

But could such visions me, forlorn. 

Revisit aft, or aye remain, 
I'd wake nae mair, nor e'er return 

Back to this weary warld again ! 

For what is life withouten love ? 

And what is love wi' nae return ? 
Oh ! is there aught her heart could move, 

Or cause mine, mourning, cease to mourn ? 
If life give nought but dark despair, 

If hopes an' joys but visions seem, 
I'd rather wish my days nae mair, 

Or passed in an eternal dream ! 



183 



O, COULD I BUT PICTURE MY LASSIE. 

Tune — ^Humours of Glen. 

O, could I but picture my lassie sae charming, 

As weel as the charms o' my lassie I see ! 
But whaur hae I phrases or language sae warming, 

As tell o' the smile o' her bonnie black e'e ? 
Her lips are as red as the saft rose o' simmer, 

Or berries that grow on the tall rowan tree ; 
The moon-beam that sleeps on the white snaw is 
dimmer 

Than the glance that fa's down frae her bonnie 
black e'e. 

I've seen maidens decked out wi' art's richest gran- 
deur, 
A' sparkling in diamonds that come ower the sea ; 
I'm thinkin' they need them to gie them some splen- 
dour, 
But Mary needs nane, save her bonnie black e'e ! 



184 O, COULD I BUT PICTURE MY LASSIE. 

O, dear to the lammie's the green grassy mountain, 
And dear is the flower to the young hiney bee, 

And dear to the traveller the desert's lone fountain. 
But dearer to me is her bonnie black e'e ! 

She whiles tries to jeer me, she whiles winnahear me. 

She whiles is, or seems to be, saucy to me ; 
But there is nae hiding, for a' her coy chiding, 

The tell-tale that lies in her bonnie black e'e. 
I speered gif she wanted to part wi' her lover ? 

I speered gif she wanted her lover to dee ? 
An' keekit to see if my words they did move her, 

An' saw a tear blindin' her bonnie black e'e ! * 

66 O ! come to me, Mary, an' ye'se be my dearie !" 

She turned round her head, an' she lookit ajee ; 
I took her an' kissed her, an' to me I pressed her, 

An' dichted the tear frae her bonnie black e'e. 
Her sweet smile returning, she blushed like the 
morning, 

An' said, " I am yours till the day that I dee !" 
O, love ! ever tarry wi' me an' my Mary, — , 

I'm blest 'neath the smile o' her bonnie black e'e ! 



185 



THE SUN BEHIND YON MOUNTAIN. 

Tune — Sae flaxen was her Ringlets. 

The sun behind yon mountain 

Is setting lovely, bright, and fair, 
While I, the moments counting, 

Am filled with anguish, grief, and care. 
For, ere he beams to-morrow, 

An' streaks wi' gowd yon sky sae blue, 
I'll hear that word of sorrow, 

That fareweel parting word — adieu! 
Had Willie wooed less kindly, 

Wi' nae sic truth an' witchin' power ; 
Had I but lo'ed less fondly, 

I might have borne the parting hour ! 



186 THE SUN BEHIND YON MOUNTAIN. 

On bygane joys I ponder, 

While future woes appear in view : 
'Twill break my heart asunder 

To hear that parting word — adieu ! 
The ship is now in motion, 

That wafts my lover o'er the sea ; 
And soon the swelling ocean 

Shall roll between my love and me ! 
No that the waves can sever 

His love an' mine, sae tender, true ! 
But what if 'tis for ever 

I hear that parting word — adieu ! 



187 



THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE TO 
DEAVE US. 

Tune— -Jy, let us a to the Bridal. 

The poets, what fools they're to deave us, 

How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine ; 
The tane is an angel, and, save us ! 

The niest ane you meet wi's divine ! 
An' then there's a lang-nebbit sonnet, 

Be't Katie, or Janet, or Jean ; 
An' the moon or some far awa' planet 's 

Compared to the blink o' her een. 

The earth an' the sea they've ransackit 

For similes to set aff their charms, 
An' no a wee flower but's attackit 

By poets, like bumbees in swarms. 
Now, what signifies a' this clatter 

By chiels that the truth winna tell ? 
Wad it no be settlin' the matter 

To say — Lass, ye're just like yoursel ? 



188 THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS. 

An' then there's nae end to the evil, 

For they are no deaf to the din, 
That, like me, ony puir luckless deevil 

Daur scarce look the gate they are in ! 
But e'en let them be wi' their scornin', 

There's a lassie whase name I could tell, 
Her smile is as sweet as the mornin', 

But, whisht ! I am ravin' mysel. 

But he that o' ravin' 's convickit, 

When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on, 
May he ne'er get anither strait jacket 

Than that buckled to by Mess John ! 
An' he wha, though cautious an' canny, 

The charms o' the fair never saw, 
Though wise as King Solomon's grannie, 

I swear is the daftest of a'. 



189 



DAYS OF SORROW, NIGHTS OF 
MOURNING. 

Tune — Roys Wife. 

Days of sorrow, nights of mourning, 
Dreams of joy that's ne'er returning: 

I try to weep, but canna weep — 

Gan tears flow when the heart is burning ? 

My Willie's love was kind an' true, 
Nor did he love a faithless Mary ; 

But, waes my heart ! the loved hours flew, 
Sic hours o' love, they couldna tarry ! 
Days of sorrow, &c. 

He said he'd bring a gowden ring, 
An' silks frae India to his deary ; 

An' he'd be blest aboon a king, 

When ance I was his ain dear Mary. 
Days of sorrow, &c. 



190 DAYS OF SORROW, NIGHTS OF MOURNING. 

I waited lang for Willie's ring, 
I waited langer for my lover ;— - 

What would I now wi' silks or ring ? 

Nae silks a breaking heart should cover ! 
Days of sorrow, &c. 

In vain I seek Edina's shore, 

And fondly gaze the braid sea over ; 

Ye waves ! when will ye cease to roar, 
An' gie me back my ain true lover ? 
Days of sorrow, &c. 



191 



O, JENNY, LET THIS STRIFE BE OWER. 

Tune — Willie was a Wanton Wag. 

O, Jenny, let this strife be ower, 

An' let this weary wark be done ; 
Ye ken I'm subject to your power, 

As ocean is to yonder moon ! 
I've ca'd ye aften fair and braw, 

The sweetest lass by hill or plain ; 
Now, I've a reason — maybe twa — 

To tell it ower an' ower again. 

Ye say ye hae nae heart to gie, 
Ye say ye hae nae love to spare ; 

O, then, accept o' some frae me, 
I'm sure I've gat an unco share ! 

'Twill maybe free my mind o' care, 
'Twill maybe ease my heart o' pain ; 

An' if, like me, it wound ye there, 
Ye just can gie me't back again. 



192 O, JENNY, LET THIS STRIFE BE OWER. 

I'll woo ye wi' a lover's flame, 

I'll roose ye in a bardie's sang ; 
Ye'll be my muse, an', at your name, 

The todlin' words will jump alang. 
I'll sing ye bloomin', young, an' kind, 

Wi' laughin' een o' clearest blue, 
But naething o' your heart an' mind, 

Else a' the warld were courtin' you ! 

I winna mind your words ava, 

Frae your sweet mouth although they come ; 
The tongue's aye ready saying — Na, 

Though a' the time the heart be dumb ! 
But I will mark your reddening cheek, 

An' I will watch your glancin' e'e, 
For love's true language these aye speak ; 

O, Jenny, let them speak for me ! 



193 



DRINK IT YET. 

Tune — Bide ye yet. 

Drink it yet, drink it yet, 
We're no just sae fou but we'll drink it yet; 
To the name that is dear, though we'll no tell it here, 
We'll tout aff a bumper and think it yet. 

It's never ower late when sittin' wi' you, — 
The warst that can happen is just to get fou; 
But though we get fou, we'll never forget 
Our friend and our lassie — sae drink it yet 
Drink it yet, &c. 

They say, when drink's in that wit it is out, 
But he that says sae is a knave and a lout ; 
For what gieth life to friendship and wit 
Like a fu' sparklin' glass ? — sae drink it yet 
Drink it yet, &c. 

N 



194 DRINK IT YET. 

It isna sae aften I meet wi' ye a', 
Time enough to be sad when gangin' awa' ; 
A charm 's in the bowl round which gude friends sit, 
And the spell to awaken't is — " Drink it yet !" 
Drink it yet, &c. 

When Fate, fickle jade, throws friends in our way, 
'Tis a moment of sunshine in life's winter day ; 
Then, ere the clouds gather, and joy's sun set, 
Let the pass-word to pleasure be — " Drink it yet ! 



Drink it yet, drink it yet, 
We're no just sae fou but we'll drink it yet ; 
To the name that is dear, though we'll no tell it here, 
In a fu' flowing bumper we'll think it yet ! 



"* 



195 



THE PEARL DIVERS' SONG. 

Away, boys, away, boys, 

Our home the hollow sea £ 
Not on the wave, nor o'er the wave, 

But down the wave go we. 
'Tis down, boys, 'tis down, boys, 

We journey through the deep, 
Where far the coral echoes wake, 

Or caverned mermaids sleep. 

Some traverse Airic's burning sands, 

Some tempt the stormy wave, 
And some amid the cannon's flash 

Seek glory or a grave. 
But who, like us, 'mid ocean's depths, 

Can dive the floods below ? 
"Tis down, boys, 'tis down, b oys, 

Full forty fathoms we go ! 



196 



THE PEARL DIVERS' SONG. 



The sun may give his brightness. 

The sky may give its showers, 
To waken earth with gladness, 

Or freshen it with flowers. 
But, oh ! not all the beauty 

Which flowery springtime shows, 
Can equal ocean's grandeur, 

Where sea-nymphs fair repose. 



The bark may fail the mariner, 

The merchant may deplore 
His treasure buried in the deep, 

Or wrecked upon the shore. 
But we have nought to fear, boys, 

When whirlwind tempests blow— 
'Tis down, boys, 'tis down, boys, 

Full forty fathoms we go ! 



197 



O! LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE, 'TIS HARD, 
I DECLARE. 



O! lassie, dear lassie, 'tis hard, I declare, 
To look on your charms as if nae charms were there, 
But ye'll no hear o' beauty, though I'm in despair, * 
Nor yet will ye let me lo'e ye. 

Your looks are sae modest that ilka blink says, 
" Ye neither maun flatter, ye neither maun praise, 
" Nor yet maun ye on me sae wistfully gaze, 
"Far less maun ye think to lo'e me." 

O ! lassie, ye needna sae scornfu' aye be, 
'Tis little I want, be it little ye gie — 
A smile o' your face, an' a blink o' your e'e, 
As meikle's to let me lo'e ye. 



198 O ! LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE. 

O ! laddie, now cease wi' your arts an' your wiles, 
Your talk o' my charms, and your talk o' my smiles, 
The tongue that is saftest aye soonest beguiles, 
I never can let ye lo'e me ! 

O ! lassie, the laverock that sings to the sky, 
Wi' saft notes o' gladness an' bosom of joy, 
May gaze on that heaven to which he is nigh, 
O ! then, let me look to lo'e ye, 

O ! laddie, the laverock that carols his lay 
At portals o' heaven, steals naething away, 
But my puir fluttering heart ye've stown it for aye, 
O ! then, I maun let ye lo'e me ! 



199 



BONNIE ARE THE BRAES. 

Tune — Mary Hay. 
New Music by E. Platt. 

Bonnie are the braes, and waving the broom, 
The rose is on the brier in its fresh simmer bloom ; 
And swift o'er the burn my laddie comes to me, 
Wi' kindness in his heart and love in his e'e. 
Bonnie are the braes, and sunny the glen. 
And that is the note o' the mavis, I ken ; 
Oh ! cease, my sweet bird, I haena time to hear, 
For, hastening through the broom, my laddie is near. 

Bonnie are the braes, and fair ilka stream 
That saftly glides by, like childhood's sunny dream : 
Row on, lovely streams, sae gently winding clear, 
In silence row on, for my laddie is near. 



200 AWAY TO THE CHASE. 

Bonnie are the braes, and a' thing is gay, 
And fain would I join in Nature's happy lay; 
But how can I sing, when there my laddie true 
Comes, blithe as the morning, his Jeanie to woo ! 



AWAY TO THE CHASE. 

(WRITTEN FOR THE MUSICAL SCRAP-BOOK TO A GERMAN AIR.) 

Away to the chase, see, the sun's rising bright, 
And our steeds have awoke from their slumbers of 

night; 
The mist's on the breeze, and the morning is young, 
The cock he hath crowed, and the bugle hath sung ! 
To rouse the brown stag from his lair in the den — 
To waken the echoes of rock and of glen — 
To bound o'er the earth amid sunshine and showers, 
Away, gallant huntsmen, such pleasures are ours. 



AWAY TO THE CHASE. 201 

We heed not the track which the traveller doth 

bind, 
Our path it is free as the flight of the wind ; 
O'er moorland, or meadow, or bold craggy steep, 
Where mountain is high, or where valley is deep, 
We seek not our joys from the juice of the vine, 
Our home is the woodland, the brooklet our wine ; 
Or if, 'mid our wanderings, the wine-cup we share, 
"lis " Hurrah for the chase !" and a health to the 

fair. 



202 



MY BONNIE BELL. 

Tune— .The Mill, Mill 9 fi. 

My bonnie Bell, my bonnie Bell, 

YeVe left me filled wi' sorrow ; 
A waefu' day is ilka day, 

A grieving day ilk morrow. 
YeVe left the bonnie Lawland braes, 

Where the heather-bell is blooming, 
For the craggy steep and the valley deep, 

Where the Highland deer is roaming. 



The Highland hills are high an' wide, 
And no for your feet clim'ing ; 

Far better by your ain burn side, 

Where the siller trouts are swimming. 



MY BONNIE BELL. 203 

There's mony a heart will beat, as ye 

Cross mountain, muir, or river ; 
But there is ane, in a Lawland glen, 

His heart is thine for ever ! 

A dowie face wears burn an' brae, 

They've tint wi' you their grandeur ; 
While proud will seem ilk mountain stream, 

As by its banks ye wander ! 
O, haste ye hame, for nae birds sings 

Save waesome notes o' mourning ; 
They keep their sangs an' canty springs 

To welcome your returning ! 



204 



1 LOOKED LONG AT THY WINDOW, 
LOVE. 



Tune— The young May Moon. 



I looked long at thy window, love, 

Thy lovely sweet glance to see, my love ; 

The evening sun 

On thy window shone, 
And I thought for a while it was thee, my love. 

But when thou come'st with a smile, my love, 
A smile that is just thine own, my love ; 

The sun, at thy sight, 

Withdrew his clear light, 
And left thee shining alone, my love ! 



I LOOKED LONG AT THY WINDOW, LOVE. 205 

Then, O ! give a smile to me, my love, 
Who often have sighed for thee, my love ; 

And my days, though o'ercast 

With misfortune's keen blast, 
Will appear bright sunshine to me, my love, 

The sun shines bright at parting, love, 
When he kisses the western sea, my love : 

But the sun's bright ray, 

At departing of day, 
Was never so lovely as thee, my love. 



206 



WHY TARRIES MY TRUE LOVE? 

Tune — Robin Adair. 

Why tarries my true love so long on sea? 

Spirits of ocean ! tell, why tarries he ? 
Dark is the midnight sky, 
Loud raves the storm on high ! 
Where closeth he his eye ! 
To dream of me ! 



When once my love returns, we part no more : 
Spirits ! oh ! where is he, by sea or shore ? 
" Far in the ocean's deeps, 
" Where death his vigil keeps, 
" There thy fond lover sleeps, 
"'Neath its loud roar!" 



207 



I COURTED MAGGIE MONY A DAY. 

Tune — Johnies Grey Breehs. 

I courted Maggie mony a day, 
To tell how lang, I'd weary, O ; 

But ne'er a word wad Maggie say — 
She wadna be my deary, O. 

But, O ! her smile, her bonnie smile, 
Though she'd na speak, it spak again; 

Though she wad say — Gae, bide away, 
It bade me aye come back again ! 

I pat a saxpence in my pouch, 
To mak me crouse an' cheery, O, 

But Maggie's heart nae words could touch — 
She wadna be my deary, O. 
But, O ! her smile, &c. 

I pat the yill cap to my head, 
An' took anither smack again ; 



208 I COURTED MAGGIE MONY A DAY. 

Quo' I_« O ! Mag, ye 5 se be my dead I" 
" Yes/' quo' she, « come ye back again ! " 
But, O ! her smile, &c. 

She laid a kebbuck on the board, 
But fient a knife my Maggie brang ; 

She then, wi' jeering scornfu' word, 
Bade me sit in an' cut a whang ! 
But, O ! her smile, &c. 

She tried to gloom, but couldna gloom, 
I syne grew bauld an' spak again ; 

Quo' she — Gae, whistle on your thoum, 
But, gudesake ! come na back again ! 
But, O ! her smile, &c. 

But tauntin' word and woman's wile 

Suld never mak a lover shy ; 
I've gained my Maggie's bonnie smile, 

I've gained my Maggie's heart forbye ! 

For, O ! her smile, her bonnie smile, 
Though she'd na speak, it spak again ; 

Though she wad say — Gae, bide away, 
It bade me aye come back again ! 



209 



COME, A 5 YE JOVIAL TOPERS. 

Tune — The Blatherie o't. 

Come, a' ye jovial topers, 

That drink the rosy wine ; 
An' ye wha quaff Glenlivet, 

Attend this sang o' mine. 
I'll tell ye o' a pleasure 

That some folk daurna name, 
'Tis to meet wi' twa three social friends 

At our ain house at hame. 
O, our ain house, &c. 

When the toddy-bowl is filling, 

O, a pleasant sight to see ! 
An' the bonnie wee bit bairnies 

Hae faulded up their e'e : 



210 COME, a' ye jovial topers, 

O ! there's a joy sae dear, 
To which a' joys are tame, 

The sweetest blinks are those that shine 
On our ain house at hame. 
O, our ain house, &c. 

It's no the ale o' Edinbro', 

Nor yet the Lon'on brown, 
Nor is't beside the brandy punch, 

In taverns o' the town : 
'Tis beside the mountain dew, 

Frae the stell without the name, 
When we toast our friend an' lassie 

At our ain house at hame. 
O, our ain house, &c. 

See, yonder pawkie landlord, 

The bowl he's gaun to fill ; 
Though the night is steahn' hame, 

His friends are sittin' still : 
For they downa gang to rest 

Till their noddle's in a flame, 
An' they mind nae mair on a' the earth 

But our ain house at hame. 
O, our ain house, &c. 



COME, A' YE JOVIAL TOPERS. 211 

Awa'j ye hen-pecked husbands, 

What happiness hae ye ? 
Instead o' friends an' whisky punch, 

Ye've cookies, care, an' tea ! 
Gie me the honest-hearted chiel 

That owns nae frowning dame, 
But can sport his jug o' toddy 

At his ain house at hame. 
His ain house, &a 



212 



ONE STAR OF THE MORNING. 

Tune — One Bumper at Parting. 

One star of the morning still lingers 

Amid the deep blue of the sky, 
O ! it waits for the sun and my Mary 

To light up the green earth with joy. 
Then haste, love, the fair lily's weeping, 

The young rose is drooping in dew ; 
The lark, hi its sweet dream, is sleeping, 

Till wakened by Nature and you ! 

There's joy when the soft morning blushes, 
And sunbeams on bright streamlets play, 

When the deep glen and dark misty mountain 
Rejoice at the coming of day: 



ONE STAR OF THE MORNING. 213 

But not the gay gladness of Nature, 
When summer and morning are young, 

Can equal that rapture of bosom, 
When you are the theme of my song. 

Yon bright star of morn is departing 

To skies of a lovelier hue, 
To sparkle on lands that are fairer, 

But on maid never fairer than you ! 
The golden sun now walks in glory, 

And gladdens with smiles flower and tree ; 
Like you who, in joy or in sorrow, 

Still gladden this bleak world to me ! 



214 



THE GRAVE IT HOLDS MY FAIREST 
NOW. 

Tune— -O no, we never mention her. 

The grave it holds my fairest now, 

The loved one of my heart ; 
Ah ! little thought I we so soon. 

So sadly soon, should part ! 
She perished in her loveliness, 

In beauty pined away, 
Like flower that falls beneath the storm, 

Before its leaves decay ! 

Hope drew a picture lovely, bright, 
Nor cloud nor storm was there ; 

But sunny tints, in golden hues, 
Tinged all the landscape fair. 



YE RAX ME A BICKER. 215 

But, ah ! the lowering tempest fell, 

And hope's gay vision fled ; 
And life has now no charm for me, 

Since all my life is dead ! 



YE RAX ME A BICKER. 

Ye rax me a bicker, an' dunch me to sing ! 

Waes me ! ye ken naething o' love's dreadfu' sting ; 

Or after sic trifles ye never wad speer, 

Nae sang could ye sing, nae sang could ye hear ! 

I yince had a lassie, baith sonsy an' fair, 

Wha jilted me fairly — sae 'bout her nae mair ; 

Yet thinkin' o' her wham I courted sae lang, 

I'd as sune mak a preachin' as sing ye a sang ! 

To sing ! by my faith, ither thochts I hae ta'en, 
What new way I might leave this warld o' pain; 
For hangin's threadbare, an' the knife's no for me, 
An' arsnic micht no wi' my weak stamack gree ! 



216 YE RAX ME A BICKER. 

I whiles think my heart's gaun to break, but I find 
It's only my wais'coat grown straiter behind ! 
Sae I maun just thole what is no like to kill, 
Fse no sing a sang, but I'se preeve o' your yill. 

Gudewife, ye brew weel, will ye try it yoursel ? 
Ken ye aught o' Tarn Spears, or his fair dochter, 

Bell? 
She's his ae only bairn, but she's worth half a score, 
I'm daft no to think o' that lassie before ! 
Come, lads ! dinna tarry, the nicht's glidin' by, 
I doubt na but thun'er's in yon troubled sky ! 
Let's chap for the lawin, an' settle the soom, 
I'll down to Tam Spears' when the bicker is toom ! 



217 



GLENYALVEN BRAES. 

(WRITTEN IN ARGYLLSHIRE IN THE SUMMER OF 1827.) 

Tune — Logan Water. 

Glenyalven, wi' thy valleys green, 
An' joukin burnies scarcely seen, 
A-listening to the cuckoo's sang, 
I've tint my heart thy braes amang. 
Thy mountain breezes saftly blaw, 
An' sweet's the flower in Yalven shaw ; 
Thy woods are green, thy braes are fair, 
An' a bonnie Highland lassie's there. 

Wandering doun Tayvalloch burn, — 
A bonnie stream wi' mony a turn, — 
I met the maiden blushing young, 
Wi' Highland heart and Highland tongue. 



218 GLENYALVEN BRAES. 

Wi' looks an' sighs I her did woo, 

Though mute the tongue, the heart was fu 5 ; 

But vain my sighs an 5 silent vows, 

She wouldna leave her heathery knowes. 

My Lawland pipe I seyed to play, 
To steal the lassie's heart away ; 
But sweetly she, in Highland sang, 
Replied, she wouldna — couldna gang. 
She gave her hand, but kept her heart ; 
An' yet, when rising to depart, 
A tear upo' her cheek had fa'n, 
Like dew-drap on a rose new blawn. 

Tayvalloch burn, and Yalven braes, — 

Though still unsung in minstrel lays, — 

Ye're dear, O ! dearer far to me, 

Than « Braes o' Doon," or "Banks o' Dee," 

Adieu ! thou land of hill an' glen, 

Of lovely maids and gallant men : 

In gazing on the fairest she, 

I've tint my peace — my heart in thee ! 



219 



SONG TO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 

Tune — Willie was a Wanton Wag. 

On Ettrick banks, ae simmer night, 

The muse of Scotia lighted down, 
She held a pipe o' ivory bright, 

And on her head a laurel crown. 
But aye she sighed, an' aye she sang, — - 

66 Sin 5 Robin Burns has fled awa', 
Oh ! wha, 'mang a' the minstrel thrang, 

This pipe o' mine will ever blaw ?" 

Like angel song to shepherds sung, 
A youthfu' shepherd heard the strain, 

Wha aft amang the hills had strung 
A harp, though rude, yet 'twas his ain ! 



* Sung at a dinner given him in Peebles, in August 1834, where Professor 
Wilson presided, being the last public honour the bard of " Kilmenny" re- 
ceived in his native land. 



220 SONG TO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 

Wi' trembling hand the pipe he took, 
An' deftly he began to play, 

While ilka glen an' fairy nook 

Wi' echoes murmured back the lay. 

He sang of Mary, Scotia's Queen, 

Ere woe had dimmed her face sae fair ; 
What Mary's palace would hae been, 

Had tyrants never lingered there ! 
He sang of Scotland bauld an' free — 

Her stalwart sons and lasses braw — 
Of social joy an' canty glee, 

For, O ! the pipe he weel could blaw ! 

The moorland wild, an' sunny glen, 

The gloamin' hour, when lovers meet, 
The stowan kiss that nane maun ken, 

Were pictured in his sang sae sweet. 
The Muse her laurel crown untied, 

And bound the same his brows upon, 
An' hailed him as her son, and cried, — 

" This is the bard of Caledon !" 

Lang may his moorland whistle blaw, 
An' lang may Scotia hear the sang ; 



old man's song. 221 

Be it aye heard by greenwood shaw, 
An' echoed hill an' dale amang ! 

And when the silent snaws o' eild 
Thick o'er his head come stealing on 5 

Be' his the snug and cozy bield, 
To cheer the bard of Caledon ! 



OLD MAN'S SONG. 

Why linger in a world of care, 

When a' that cared for me are gane ? 

Why drag life's weary chain sae lang, 

When friends to lighten't there are nane ? 

A lone one in a lonely world — 
A stranger — I but strangers see ; 

And, when I sleep with them that sleep, 
A stranger's grave my bed shall be ! 



222 old man's song. 

When youth was gay, and hope was young, 
And ilka wee flower in its prime, 

I thought this was a pleasant world, 
For happy, happy, was that time : 

But bleak showers fell, and winter snell, 
With age — life's winter — hurried on : 

Swift fled the flowers with youth's fond hours, 
Like summer sun that o'er them shone! 

The wanderer kens where he will rest, 
The weary ken where they will dee : 

Yet here, a weary wanderer, I 
Ken nought but sad adversitie. 

The storm that breaks the sapling aik, 
But scarcely bends the aged tree- 
When will I lay me down to sleep ? 
When will I lay me down to dee ? 



223 



THE CHARM OF LIFE HATH PASSED 
AWAY. 

T one— Gilderoy. 

The charm of life hath passed away, 

My Mary is no more ; 
Love's fleeting vision would not stay, 

Its golden dream is o'er ! 
They talk of joy who know not woe, 

Of hope who know not care ; 
They speak of peace who do not know 

The depths of dark despair ! 

In fairest green the spring came round, 

And in its train the flowers ; 
While music, with its silver sound, 

Made glad this world of ours. 



224 THE CHARM OF LIFE HATH PASSED AWAY. 

But now the summer song is past, 
And autumn, sad and slow, 

Comes lowering on the sweeping blast, 
To lay the flowerets low. 

I see them fading, one by one, 

'Neath evening's wintry sky, 
Nor morning from her orient throne 

Shall wake them forth in joy. 
They mind me of the flower that's fled — 

A fairer never shone — 
They tell me that my joy is dead, 

My lovely one is gone ! 



Could I be blamed for loving her? 

A being formed for love — 
Whose image might a grace confer 

On angel homes above ; 
For heaven's fair radiance, softly bright, 

Was settled on her brow ; — 
Farewell, blest days, that knew no night- 

They close in darkness now ! 



225 



THE AUTUMN WINDS ARE BLAWING. 

Tune — Flowers o' the Forest. 

The autumn winds are blawing, red leaves are 
fa'ing, 

An' nature is mourning the simmer's decay ; 
The wee birdies singing, the wee flowerets springing, 

Hae tint a' their sangs, an' withered away ! 
I, too, am mourning, for death has nae returning , 

Where are my bairnies, the young an' the gay ? 
Why should they perish ? — the blossoms we cherish — ■ 

The beautiful are sleeping cauld in the clay ! 

Fair was their morning, their beauty adorning, 
The mavis sang sweet at the closing o' day ; 

Now the winds are raving, the green grass is waving, 
O'er the buds o' innocence cauld in the clay ! 

p 



226 THE AUTUMN WINDS ARE BLAWING. 

Uka night brings sorrow, grief comes ilk morrow — - 
Should gowden locks fade before the auld an 7 
grey? 
But still, still they're sleeping, wi' nae care nor 
weeping, 
The robin sits chirping ower their cauld clay ! 

In loveliness smiling, ilka day beguiling, 

In joy and in gladness, time murmured by ; 
What now were pleasure, wi' a' the warld's treasure ? 

My heart's in the grave where my fair blossoms 
lie! 
The autumn winds are blawing, red leaves are fa'ing, 

Moaning is the gale as it rides on its way ; 
A wild music's sighing, it seems a voice crying, — 

" Happy is that land that knows no decay !" 



227 



O! TAKE ME TO YON SUNNY ISLE. 

T une — Gramachree. 
New Music by J. Satchell, London* 

O ! take me to yon sunny isle., 

That stands in Fortha's sea, 
For there, all lonely, I may weep, 

Since tears my lot must be. 
The caverned rocks alone shall hear 

My anguish and my woe, 
But can their echoes Mary bring? 

Ah ! no, no, no ! 

I'll wander by the silent shore, 

Or climb the rocky steep, 
And list to ocean murmuring 

The music of the deep ; 



228 O ! TAKE ME TO YON SUNNY ISLE. 

But when the soft moon lights the waves 

In evening's silver glow, 
Shall Mary meet me 'neath its light ? 

Ah ! no, no, no ! 

I'll speak of her to every flower, 

And lovely flowers are there, 
They'll maybe bow their heads and weep.. 

For she, like them, was fair ; 
And every bird I'll teach a song, 

A plaintive song of woe, 
But Mary cannot hear their strains ? 

Ah ! no, no, no ! 

Slow steals the sun adown the sky, 

As loath to part with day, 
But airy morn, with carolling voice, 

Shall wake him forth as gay ; 
Yet Mary's sun rose bright and fair, 

And now that sun is low, 
Shall its fair beam e'er grace the morn ? 

Ah ! no, no, no ! 

But I must shed the hidden tear, 
Lest Mary mark my care : 



FAIR MAIDEN WITH THE BRIGHT BLUE EYE. 229 

The stifling groan may break my heart, 

But it shall linger there ! 
I'll even feign the outward smile, 

To hide my inward woe, 
I would not have her weep in heaven ? 

Ah ! no, no, no ! 



FAIR MAIDEN WITH THE BRIGHT 
BLUE EYE. 



Fair maiden with the bright blue 



■o x - 



eye, 



Thou'st stolen my heart away ; 
Thou'rt mingled in my dreams by night, 
And in my thoughts by day ! 

And oft thy name steals from my lip, 

Or falters on my tongue — 
O ! I was ne'er beguiled before 

By one so fair and young ! 



230 FAIR MAIDEN WITH THE BRIGHT BLUE EYK, 

Thy image, lovely as the morn., 

Appears in all I see ; 
For nature, in her fairest forms, 

But breathes and speaks of thee ! 

Thy voice is in the song that falls 

On evening calm and fair ; 
And in the rose's opening tint, 

Thy beauty's pictured there ! 

O ! welcome love, if this be love — 

Aught else it cannot be — 
To think that all my joy or woe 

Finds sympathy with thee. 

To wander 'mong the buds of springs 

Or flowers of summer gay, 
And sing — O ! maiden, ever fair, 

Thou'st stolen my heart away ! 



231 



SONG OF THE WINE BOND. 

BACCHANALIAN EXTRAVAGANZA. 

Tune — Paddy O Carrol. 

O come to the wine bond in gladness and glory. 

The Burgundy's bright, and the brandy is strong; 
Our bold deeds shall flourish in fame's future story, 

Brave kings of the wine-cup, and knights of the 
song. 
We'll stifle the lockers, and burke the wine brokers, 

With hammers and pokers we'll force in our way; 
Our torches are gleaming, the red wine is beaming, 

In bright oceans streaming — away, lads, away ! 

Yon dark butt of Cadiz, how silent it slumbers, 
Unconscious the spoilers thirst strong for its blood; 

Its heart-drops shall waken our wild swelling num- 
bers, 
It dies as the flower dies when nipt in the bud ! 



232 SONG OF THE WINE BOND. 

The world's getting old, with its dull round of plea- 
sures, 
Its cold forms of friendship, tame, tame, are they 
all; 
But here is the mine where repose its chief treasures, 
And, goblet of Bacchus! enjoy them we shall ! 

Come, come — dost thou blush at a flagon of claret? 

Ha ! ha ! 'tis its brightness but meeting with thine ; 
Come, bleed him again — the bluff barrel can bear it, 

In joy let us share it — hurrah ! for the wine ! 
The night moon is up, through the heavens see her 
wander, 

'Tis well, for our torches grow drowsy and dim ; 
Rouse, sons of the night! let us crown it with 
splendour, 

In glory and grandeur, with cups to the brim ! 



233 



THE BATTLE FLAG WAVES ON THE 
BREEZE. 



The battle flag waves on the breeze, 

Hark ! hark ! the bugle's calling ; 
Each soldier coming glory sees, 

And foemen round him falling ! 
One youth remains, to beauty true, 

To coward fear a stranger, 
The last to bid his love adieu, 

The foremost in the danger. 

The soldier seeks his lady's bower, 
Which rose and woodbine cover ; 

She knows it is the farewell hour, 
The parting with her lover ! 



234 THE BATTLE FLAG WAVES ON THE BREEZE. 

And art thou come, but not to stay ? 

She cries, in words of sorrow ; 
I know thou'rt with me here to-day, 

But where art thou to-morrow ? 

Cease, cease, he cried, nor grieve a heart 

With love and honour burning — 
It suits not one in tears to part, 

With laurelled brow returning ! 
Adieu, fair maid, this heart is thine, 

No fate our love shall sever ; 
And while I hold thy bosom mine, 

O ! I am blest for ever ! 



235 



HURRAH ! FOR THE LAND OF THE 
BRAVE! 

Music by D. Currie. 

The glory of England shall rise, 

As riseth the sun o'er the wave, 
In the temple of Fame they shall echo her name — 

Hurrah ! for the land of the brave ! 

Here freedom hath gladdened the soil 

That never was trod by a slave, 
And beauty's fair smile gives a charm to the isle — 

Hurrah ! for the land of the brave ! 

Tread light where our battle fields lie — 

Each spot is a warrior's grave ; 
Their bold deeds we'll tell, while the chorus shall 
swell — 

Hurrah ! for the land of the brave ! 



236 THE LILY NOW BLOOMS IN ITS BEAUTY. 

Old ocean encircles the free, 

And liberty's banner shall wave 
In pride o'er the main, while the harp sounds the 
strain — 

Hurrah ! for the land of the brave ! 



" 



THE LILY NOW BLOOMS IN ITS 
BEAUTY. 



The lily now blooms in its beauty, 

The hawthorn blossoms sae fair, 
And simmer, on saft sunny breezes, 

Comes dancing in gladness ance mair. 
The clear siller burnie is gushing, 

Late covered in deep winter snaw, 
And a', save my puir heart, is cheery — 

My bonnie dear laddie's awa' ! 



THE LILY NOW BLOOMS IN ITS BEAUTY. 237 

I ken by the note o' the blackbird, 

I ken by the lintie's saft sang, 
I ken by the shrill singing laverock, 

High piping the white cluds amang : 
1 ken by the wail o' the plover, 

That echoes through greenwood and shaw, 
A' nature thegither is telling 't — 

My bonnie dear laddie's awa' ! 

Nae mair by the wood-skirted mountain 

I meet him when morning is young, 
Nor down i' the valley at gloamin' 

I list to his love-wooing tongue ! 
Nae mair do I hear his wild music, 

For sweetly the pipe he can blaw, 
I wonder what's come o' my laddie — 

O ! he was the dearest of a' ! 

But the sun that shines sweet on the gowan, 

Rekindles the dark rocky glen, ^ 
Sae I, though my heart it be eerie, 

May welcome its sunshine again. 
But, hark ! yonder note as it rises, 

Or laigh down the valley does fa', 
I ken 'tis the pipe o' my true love — 

O ! he is the dearest of a' ! 



238 



CAPTAIN MUNRO.* 

Tune — Humours o' Glen. 

Success to all sailors who wend o'er the ocean, 

Whose barks o'er its bosom bound fleet as the 
roe ; 
Success to all captains who fight for promotion — 

The bravest of captains is Captain Munro ! 
He fights with the boldest, he rouses the coldest, 

His weapon's the strong wine as black as the sloe ; 
Your bucklers and targes can ne'er stand his charges, 

The prince of all warriors is Captain Munro ! 

His ship is the fleetest, his cabin the neatest, 

And jhere did we meet when the sun journeyed 
low; 
The night breeze was blowing, but the cock it was 
crowing 
Ere we thought of going from Captain Munro ! 

* Written at the request of a party of friends, who, along with the author, 
dined with Captain Mu> t ro on beard his ship, the John Munro of Limekilns. 



CAPTAIN MUNRO. 239 

There Willie and Sandy quaffed bumpers in 
brandy, 
While Bob swore that Burgundy best cured his 
woe; 
And Mack, man of merit, hob-nob'd wi' the claret, 
Or nobly did share it wi' Captain Munro ! 

The grey-beards and rummers — nae unfrequent 
comers — 
Like fifers and drummers, a' stood in a row : 
"Now seize on the nearest, and drain out the 
clearest, 
And drink to the dearest," said Captain Munro ! 
Such laughing and singing, to full cups such clinging, 
While speeches like Baltic's dark waters did flow ; 
And when tongues failed in duty, the eye rose in 
beauty, 
Speaking eloquent glances to Captain Munro ! 

But, oh ! dool and sorrow ! when night brought the 
morrow, 
The waves danced in gladness, the light breeze 
did blow, 
The sails were in motion, and quick o'er the ocean, 
Away went the good ship and Captain Munro ! 



240 MY HOME IS THE HIGHLANDS. 

But summer is coming, when flowerets fair blooming, 
Their bright dewy grandeur to nature will show : 

O, welcome, gay season ! I'll tell you the reason — 
For then come the white sails of Captain Munro ! 



MY HOME IS THE HIGHLANDS. 

Tune— -Paddy O'Rafferty. 

My home is the Highlands, that home that is dearest, 
Where woods are the darkest and streamlets the 

clearest ; 
No arts of the Lawlands, with fashions so gaudy, 
The mountains for me and my dear Highland laddie. 
O ! there the dun deer in its wild freedom boundeth, 
And there the shrill pibroch its martial notes sound- 

eth; 
A thousand bright swords to its summons are ready, 
And first 'mong the brave is my dear Highland laddie. 

& 



MY HOME IS THE HIGHLANDS. 241 

Our heath-covered mountains are boldest and steep- 
est, 
Our bright-bosomed waters are fairest and deepest ; 
O'er steep rock or streamlet with foot free and steady, 
As swift as the roe comes my dear Highland laddie. 
His eye is as keen as the eagle's high soaring, 
His soul only yields to his loved maid adoring ; 
His heart it is true, and his cheek it is ruddy, 
And kind, kind to me is my dear Highland laddie. 

As high as the pine-tree that waves on the mountain, 
As pure as the light stream that flows from the 

fountain, 
So high is his heart, and so pure and as steady, 
The love that I bear to my dear Highland laddie. 
His parting is only to cheer his returning, 
He speeds o'er the lake like a bird of the morning, 
With sails snowy white and streamers so gaudy — 
The mountains for me, and my dear Highland laddie ! 



242 



DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE. 

Tune — Dinna think, bonnie lassie, Im gaun to leave thee. 

Dinna think, bonnie lassie, 

Though the trumpet's sounding, 
And gallant steeds for noble deeds 

In martial pride are bounding ; 
Dinna think this brief farewell 

Will e'er give cause to grieve thee, 
From battle plain I'll come again, 

To love and never leave thee. 

Dinna think, bonnie lassie, 

This the hour of sorrow — 
The glorious light but falls in night 

To wake a brighter morrow ; 
And though misfortune's clouds may seem 

Our morn of joy to cover, 
The Powers that gave to me thy love 

Will give thee back thy lover. 



DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE. 243 

Dinna think, bonnie lassie, 

When the foe is flying, 
And where was life and battle strife 

Are now the dead and dying ; 
Dinna think, though red the fight, 

And all around be gory, 
This heart shall cease to beat for thee, 

Or share with thee the glory. 

Dinna think, bonnie lassie, 

While the danger spurning, 
And for a name of deathless fame 

Each soldier brave is burning ; 
Dinna think that beauty's charms 

Shall be remembered never — 
The brave in fight, the true in love, 

Shall be victorious ever! 



244 



ODE TO THE MEMORY OF SIR WALTER 
SCOTT, 

AS SUNG BY MISS BYFELD IN THE MA8QUE, PERFORMED IN 
THE THEATRE-ROYAL, EDINBURGH, IN HONOUR OF THE 
GENIUS OF THE MINSTREL OF THE NORTH. 

Tune — Braes of Yarrow. 

The Minstrel sleeps ! — the charm is o'er, 
The bowl beside the fount is broken, 

And we shall hear that Harp no more 
Whose tone to every land hath spoken ! 

The Minstrel sleeps ! — and common clay 
Claims what is only common now ; 

His eye hath lost its kindling ray, 
And darkness sits upon his brow ! 

The Minstrel sleeps ! — the spell is past, 
His spirit its last flight hath taken ; 

The magic wand is broke at last, 

Whose touch all things to life could waken ! 



ODE TO THE MEMORY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 245 

The Minstrel sleeps ! — the glory's fled, 
The soul's returned back to the Giver, 

And all that e'er could die is dead, 

Of him whose name shall live for ever! 

The Minstrel sleeps ! — and Genius mourns 
In tears of woe, and sighs of sorrow ; 

For though each day his song returns, 

The Minstrel's voice it knows no morrow ! 

The Minstrel sleeps ! — and death, oh ! thou 
Hast laid the mighty with the slain — 

The mantle fallen, is folded now, 
And who may it unfold again ? 



246 



THY ROSES, ENGLAND. 

Thy roses, England, must be fair 
When two such lovely ones we see — 

O ! I would bid farewell to care, 
Could I beside such blossoms be ! 

The myrtle, 'neath Italia's sky, 

Puts forth its leaves of shady green : 

The palm-tree lifts its head on high 
Where Ganges' sunny banks are seen. 

But not the gems of Indian bowers, 
Nor those Italia's gales perfume, 

Can match with England's fairest flowers, 
The roses of the living bloom ! 

For them I mourn, for them I sigh, 
For them I breathe my fondest prayer; 

Aught else of joy brings not of joy, 
If they its pleasures may not share ! 



THY ROSES, ENGLAND. 247 

! had I wealth as I have will, 

Of these fair flowers one rose were mine ; 
But which to choose would vex me still, 

They're both so lovely, so divine ! 

But, oh ! in parting, we must part 
To meet no more in love's fond tie ; 

But still enthroned within my heart, 
My roses there shall never die ! 



248 



I HEARD A MAIDEN PLAINTIVE SING. 

T une — Gramachree. 

I heard a maiden plaintive sing, and thus the 
maiden sung — 

While sorrow seemed to cloud the brow of her still 
fair and young. 

" Had I," she said, and, oh ! how sweet the trem- 
bling accents fell, 

And yet they told that hope with her had ta'en a 
long farewell ! — 

" Had I the joys of other years, when all the world 

was gay, 
I would not mourn so many hours of gladness pass'd 

away : 
I would not sigh for pleasures fled, that cannot come 

again, 
If one of all the many gone to me but did remain ! 



I HEARD A MAIDEN PLAINTIVE SING. 249 

u Alas! if love gave all my joy, it now brings all my woe, 
Since those fond moments vanished now, again I 

may not know, 
When he, the kind, the young, the brave, made 

those fleet moments seem 
As if this world were one of joy, and all its cares a 

dream ! 

" To-day we wandered in our love, where bright the 

flow'rets grew, 
To-morrow o'er the foaming main, his gallant bark 

it flew ; 
And many a day I've counted o'er, and many a 

morrow mourn'd, 
But ne'er unto these longing eyes has that swift 

bark return'd ! 

a They spoke of death, but did not tell where his 

lone grave might be, 
Yet soon a boding voice I heard, that whispered 

thus to me : — 
Not where the yew-tree, darkly green, its wintry 

branches wave, 
But 'neath the wild and stormy deep is thy fond 

lover's grave !" t 



250 



ONE SONG, AND SINCE IT IS THE 
LAST. 



Oot: song, and since it is the last, 
Oh ! let it be a plaintive strain, 

That I, when all our loves are past, 
May weep o'er it again. 

Another fate, had it been mine, 

Perhaps had spared this pang from me ; 

Another fate, had it been thine, 
Had saved those tears from thee. 

Farewell ! 'twere briefly said, farewell ! 

And parting it were quickly done, 
Did tyrant memory never tell 

That fond hearts once were one. 



MY SOUL'S NOT IN THE MOTLEY THRONG. 251 

We yet may meet ; but, should we meet, 
The busy world must never know, 

That e'er our hearts with love did beat, 
As now they beat with woe ! 



MY SOUL'S NOT IN THE MOTLEY 
THRONG. 

My soul's not in the motley throng, 

Nor busy crowds we see ; 
I wander 'mid the world of song, 

Where Nature's voice is free. 

The roaring woods or heaving floods, 

With murky thunders driven 
Athwart the sky, proclaiming high 

The Majesty of Heaven ! 



252 my soul's not in the motley throng 

To ponder far from earthly care, 

Or in the sunless glen 
To commune with the silence there, 

Remote from mortal ken ! 

To follow tracks where follow none — 
To be where none shall be — 

The privilege to be alone, 
The glory to be free ! 






253 



THE BEAUTIFUL'S AWAY. 

Tune — The Highland Watch. 



The roses flower and fade unseen. 

In all their beauty fair ; 
They deck no more their throne of green, 

Nor fondly linger there ! 
For lovely eyes that watched their bloom, 

Or bade their blossoms stay, 
Have closed their brightness in the tomb — - 

The beautiful's away ! 

I saw my flower in pride come forth, 

But soon its hour went by, 
Permitted but to bud on earth, 

It blossoms in the sky ! 



254 the beautiful's away. 

It fell, ere autumn winds arose, 
While summer yet was gay, 

Ye flowerets take a long repose, 
The beautiful's away ! 

I may not sigh for her that's gone, 

Nor weep though she is fled ; 
No sigh should come nor tear drop down 

For what is with the dead ! 
But in my heart there is a woe, 

A grief that, seems to say :— 
Bright flowers, lay all your blossoms low, 

The beautiful's away ! 



255 



ODE TO THE HARP. 

Thou harp of song ! why sleep'st thou now ? 

Thy once high tones are low ; 
Yet Moore hath sounded all thy joy, 

And Byron all thy woe ! 

The willow branch is now thy home, 

Beside the silent stream, — 
Do all the mighty slumber now. 

In death's unbroken dream ? 

Where is the bard who swept thy chords 

On Coila's flowery lea ? 
Whose song — harp of a thousand years — 

Brought glory back to thee ! 

Where is the bard whose magic touch, 

All on thy trembling string, 
The pride, the pomp of chivalry, 

From time's long vast did bring ? 



256 ODE TO THE HARP. 

Alas ! the clarion sounds no more, 
Nor neighing steeds come forth 

To welcome, in their bright array, 
The Minstrel of the North ! 

Lone harp ! are all thy chords unstrung ? 

Is all thy music o'er ? 
Shall none for love, for freedom, fame, 

Thy harmony restore ? 

The hollow wind creeps o'er thy strings, 
And wakes this feeble strain — 

K The halcyon days of song are past, 
And may not come again !" 

Sad harp ! where are thy echoes now ? 

Thy thrilling tones are low ; 
Yet Moore hath sounded all thy joy, 

And Byron ail thy woe ! 



257 



LET YOUNKERS BOAST HIGH. 



Let younkers boast high of their loves and their joys. 
Mere baubles of childhood, or youth's idle toys; 
Gie me the warm friendship that age aye can len', 
The frank hearty welcome of honest auld men ! 

To crack o' the feats of our years fled away, 

And speak o' the friends that are cauld in the clay, — 

These tales of the past may awaken a sigh, 

But it charms us to call up our simmers gane by ! 

To look on the journey we've traversed sae fast, 
And count o'er the milestanes o' life we hae pass'd ; 
The road whiles was rough, and we whiles fand it 

lang, 
But aften 'twas smooth'd wi' a blithe canty sang. 



i 



258 LET YOUNKERS BOAST HIGH. 

And now since we've a' got sae far on life's day. 
Oh ! wha wad throw clouds on the rest of the way ? 
The morning is fled, and gane is the noon, 
And evening, fast coming, will steal on us soon ! 

Then ere the lang night come that Death ca's his 

ain, 
Oh ! let us be happy, and social, and fain ; 
We're far-travelled pilgrims, and a' of ae band, 
Then pledge me your heart, as I now pledge my 

hand! f 



259 



DIRGE OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 

Published to Music by Finlay Dun. 

The Bard of Ettrick's silent now, 

His loved harp sounds no more, 
Though scarce we think its notes are dead, 

And all its tones are .o'er; 
The leaf's not fall'n that late was green, 

When in his woodland bower, 
Amid his forest solitudes, 

We listened to its power. 

And yet a boding voice is heard, 

His spirit's flight it tells, 
And thus, in cadence wild and deep, 

The wailing chorus swells ; 
While hill and dale, and rock and tree. 

And every vale around, 



260 DIRGE TO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 

Respond the shrill aerial dirge. 
In music's saddest sound : 

u All mournfully — all mournfully, 

We bore the Bard along, 
And laid him in the narrow house, 

Where lives no voice of song. 
The grave is now his resting place, 

Where weary pilgrims sleep, 
His dwelling is the narrow house, 

Which death's strong warders keep. 

" One mom the echoes ceased to wake, 

The mountain pipe was still, 
Another came, and yet we missed 

The Minstrel on his hill. 
We sought him where his home appears, 

Far in the forest glen, 
And found Kilmeny's Bard had left 

The land of living men ! 

" St Mary's Lake is lonely now, 
And now from Yarrow's stream 

The pride of love and pomp of song 
Have vanished like a dream ; 



I 



DIRGE TO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 261 

And Ettrick Vale, where every flower 

In beauty fair did blow, 
Now mourns her moorland harp unstrung, 

And all her flow'rets low ! 

" The rose shall bloom on Tweed's fair banks, 

The lily yet shall spring, 
The mountains shall burst forth in song, 

And all the grove shall sing ; 
But who shall call the Minstrel forth 

When summer decks the plain ? — 
The tenants of the narrow house 

Come never back again. 

" The fount of song hath ceased to flow, 

Which Ramsay did descry, 
And at the feet of Ferguson 

In pebbly pride went by ; 
Or nobly o'er its crystal banks 

Did gushing overflow, 
When Burns, in glory and in joy, 

Beside the stream did go. 

" The Minstrel of < Gleniffer Braes,' 
And others of the lyre, 



262 DIRGE TO THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 

Have followed^ till the silver thread 

In Yarrow did expire. 
Bright fount of song, whose cooling draught 

Did soothe our deepest woe, 
Who now shall raise the wand, and bid 

The rock-lodged waters flow ? 

" The harp that long in Scotia's land 

Hath gladdened with its sound, 
Is only where the willows weep 

In sadness to be found ! 
Or should the rude blast wake a chord* 

'Tis but a passing strain — 
The Bard who of Kilmeny sang 

Comes never back again ! 

" No more to sing 'mong Yarrow Braes, 

Or charm in Ettrick Vale, 
Or cheer the shepherd's humble hearth 

With simple song or tale ! 
All mournfully — all mournfully, 

We bore him sad along, 
And laid him in the narrow house, 

Where lives no voice of song !" f 






POEMS AND BALLADS. 



POEMS AND BALLADS. 



THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW. 

[The German original of the following poem was the production of Baron 
Zeidlitz. M. Barthelemy, for publishing a French translation under the reign 
of the restored Bourbons, was sentenced to a fine of one thousand francs, and 
three months' imprisonment. This would seem to imply that it was held as 
calculated to foster the love of Napoleon in the breasts of the French nation. 
To us, on the contrary, it seems fitted to impress a melancholy sense of the 
waste of human life, under the system pursued by that memorable man, and 
the hollowness of all that military glory, which he taught the French nation 
to thirst for. Excepting the newspaper paragraph, which simply mentioned, 
a few years ago, a speculation made by an English merchant in bringing over 
for manure the bones of the French chivalry which had been left on the 
Russian fields, we could not well conceive any thing more significant of the 
vanity of military procedure than this visionary mustering of the hosts who 
gave their lives to serve the selfishness of one. The following translation is 
by Mr Robert Gilfillan, and appeared first in the Dublin University Magazine.] 
— Chambers' Journal. 



At midnight hour is heard 
A wild and wailing sound ; 

The spectre-drummer leaves his grave, 
Parading round and round. 



266 THE MIDNIGHT HE VIEW. 

His neshless hands they play 
With drumsticks on the drain, 

And now the martial reveille 
Or roll-call beat doth come. 

So strangely does he play, 
That, wakening to the strain, 

Old soldiers from their gory sleep 
Start up to life again ! 

Those in the frozen North 
Who fell 5 neath Russian sway, 

And those who from Italia's grave 
Return not back to day. 

Arabia's desert teems, 

And Nile gives up her slain ; 
And, lo ! hi ghostly armour clad, 

They crowd the ranks amain ! 

And from his midnight tomb 
The trumpeter doth come, 

And shrilly answers with his blast 
The summons of the drum. 



THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW. 267 

All on their airy steeds 

The warrior throng is seen, 
With many a gash'd and gory wound, 

And visage dark, I ween ! 

To grasp the flashing sword 

Their bony hands aspire ; 
But from their grinning skulls the eyes 

Give out no wonted fire ! 

At midnight's lonely hour 

The Chief of all the band, 
On blanched steed, comes slowly forth 

To give the still command 

He wears no badge of war, 

No mark of kingly fame, 
Nor plume nor glittering star 

Add splendour to his name. 

A little sword hangs sheath'd 

His shadowy form beside ; 
But all the Hero's fire is gone, 

And all the Monarch's pride. 



268 THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW. 

The moon looks from the sky 
On the spectral forms below, 
And he who reins the blanched steed 
From rank to rank doth go. 

The squadrons greet their Chief, 

In silence greet they him, 
Save when the drum and trumpet notes 

Rise o'er the phalanx dim! 

Around him Marshals come, 
And Generals bend the sword, 

And, see ! the Chieftain stoops to one, 
And gives a whispering word ! 

That word flies round the ranks, 
With lightning swiftness driven ; 

'Tis France ! their watchword — St Helene ! 
The password quickly given ! 

'Tis thus, at midnight hour, 

The spirits of the slain 
Assemble round a Mighty Chief, 

That troubleth not again ! 



269 



MUSIC. 



Wake, Music's voice, and give me song, 

For harmony shall be 
The charm that binds my heart to all — 

And every heart to me ! 

Where music is, no ill may come, 

And sadness quickly flies, 
Or calms into a pleasing dream, 

When melodies arise. 

And if of song the highest bliss 
Would erring mortals know, 

Let beauty only wake the strain, 
And bid the numbers flow ! 



270 music. 

The mountains breathe a harmony, 
The woods burst forth in song, 

And Ocean, with its dreamy voice, 
Sings high the waves among. 

But songs of woods, or hills, or seas, 

May never once compare 
With music falling from the tongue 

Of lovely woman fair. 

In loveliness she sings of love, 

To her 'tis kindly given 
To raise the grovelling soul from earth, 

And taste the joys of heaven. f 



271 



STANZAS 

TO MRS M Js CHILDREN ON THEIR ARRIVAL FROM INDIA, 

Fair flow'rets of an Eastern clime, 

Welcome to Scotia's shore; 
Ye come 'mid our brief summer's prime, 

When all our storms are o'er. 
Short-lived our days of breezes bland, 
Unlike your own bright sunny land ! 

We may not boast of groves of palm, 
Nor flowers of living bloom, 

Nor wafted airs of scented balm, 
A soft and sweet perfume ! 

Nor skies that know no cloud, like those 

'Neath which your childhood did repose ! 

We must not speak of golden streams, 
Whose waters gentlv flow, 



272 STANZAS. 

Like those of which a poet dreams, 

Or your loved landscapes know ! 
Our mountain torrents burst along, 
Not like those famed in Indian song ! 

We may not tell of song-birds fair, 
Whose plumage mocks the sun, 

Whose music fills the morning air, 
Nor stops till day is done. 

Our warblers wake a feeble song, 

Compared to those you lived among! 

We cannot tell of scenes that shine 

All gorgeous to the view, 
Where Spring exclaims — These scenes are mine ! 

And Summer claims them too ! 
Our vales oft show a prospect drear, 
And Winter comes to cloud our year ! 

But Scotland hails ye as her own — 
Bleak, rugged, though she be — 

Her worth o'er every land is known, 
Her fame on every sea ! 

And 'mid our mountains cold and bare, 

The warm and friendly heart is there ! 



WINTER SONG OF THE FLOWERS. 273 

Then, welcome ! from the foaming tide 

Between and India's sky — 
May each be still a mother's pride, 

And each a mother's joy! 
Long days of happiness and love, 
Esteemed below, and blessed above ! f 



WINTER SONG OF THE FLOWERS. 

The Rose thus to the Lily sang, 
While loud the winds did blow, 

Above their heads the crisping frost, 
Around the wintry snow : — 

" Fair lily of the sunny bowers, 

Pent in thy icy tomb, 
Where summer green leaf never spread, 

Nor flow'r of Spring did bloom. 



274 WINTER SONG OF THE FLOWERS. 

The lark hath sought another land, 

Far on its weary wing ; 
But cheer thy heart, sweet modest flower,. 

We'll all come out in Spring ! 

K The hare bell sleeps beneath the sod, 

The primrose on the lea. 
And where is now the daisy sweet, 

So fair, so bright to see ? 
Even thou hast lost thy queen-like pride, 

Which all the bards did sing ; 
But cheer thy heart, sweet modest flower, 

We'll all come out in Spring ! 

" The trees have lost their verdure fair, 

Their branches, no more green, 
Are waving to the summer breeze, 

Where song-birds oft were seen ! 
The morn comes not with early dew, 

They day no sun doth bring ; 
But cheer thy heart, sweet modest flower, 

We'll all come out in Spring ! 

" Then music shall awake the grove, 
And joy shall light the glen, 






WINTER SONG OF THE FLOWERS. 275 

And all the band of buried flowers 

Shall blossom forth again ! 
The earth is now a wilderness, 

And darkness reigns as king; 
But cheer thy heart, sweet modest flower, 

We'll all come out in Spring ! 

" Alas ! thou must not venture yet 

To lift thy fragile form ; 
For loud and angry is the wind, 

And awful is the storm. 
But when thou hear'st the cuckoo's note, 

Or thrush in woodland sing, 
Then may'st thou leave thy wintry home, 

And welcome in the Spring ! f 



276 



FUNERAL DIRGE FOR WILLIAM IV. 

Edesta's ramparts high 

Glow in the setting sun, 
And far upon the ear of night 

Is heard the funeral gun ; 
It speaks of glory fled, 

It tells of greatness gone — 
That death has shown how vain the pomp 

That circles round a throne ! 

The regal hand is cold, 

Nor wields the sceptre now ! 
The jeweh'd chaplet's passed away 

That bound the royal brow ! 
The sword of power is sheath'd, 

And, for the music's swell, 
That rose within the princely hall, 

Now chimes the burial bell ! 

Again ! — the minute gun 
Wakes echo from her cave ! 



FUNERAL DIRGE FOR WILLIAM IV. 277 

And see the fast declining sun 

Sinks 'neath the western wave ! 
Sadly he goes away, 

Like our old King, to rest ; 
And now the Queen of night appears, 

In virgin beauty drest ! 

So comes our maiden Queen, 

With high attendant train, 
To shed a glory o'er the land, 

And bid it smile again ! 
She comes, in youthful pride, 

With kind and gentle sway ; 
And all shall own her purer beam, 

Her softer, milder ray ! 

Hail ! Empress of our sky, 

A cloudless path be thine, 
Thou lovely — but, oh, not the last — 

Of a long and noble line. 
Old England is thine own ! 

Thou'rt loved by Erin green ! 
And not a heart in all Scotland 

But will rise for Scotland's Queen 



278 



THE DEATH OF THE INFANTS. 

'Twas when the flowery fields were green* 

An' buds were on the tree, 
Twa bonnie bairnies o' this earth 

A-laid them down to dee ! — 

"And shall I wait for you, sister? 

Or shall you wait for me ? 
We journey to a happier land, 

Let's gang in company ! 

" An' fareweel to our father's house, 

Likewise our mother's knee, — 
We journey to a happier land, 

And gang in company !" 

The touch o' death sae gently fell, 
That scarce ye'd ken'd it there, 
Had not the breath, like the rose's breeze, 
Played round their lips nae mair, 



THE DEATH OF THE INFANTS. 279 

" And shall we ne'er our loved ones see 

In this low world of pain ? 
Yet there's a bright and happy land 

Where we shall meet again !" 

But many a sigh came frae the heart, 

And tear fell frae the e'e, 
When the fair took flight to the world of light, 

Where tears maun never be ! 

The sun shone with his fairest beam, 

To light them on their way ; 
And the laverock high, with notes of joy, 

Attuned his sweetest lay ! — 

" Sweet birdie, say — which is the way 
That we'll gang through the sky ? — 

We left an earthly hame to-day 
For a heavenly hame on high F 

The bird up-flew on soaring wing, 

Till near the hour of even, 
When the bairnies heard the angels' song 

At the portal gates o' heaven ! 



280 THE DEATH OF THE INFANTS. 

" Gang down ! gang down ! sweet bird, gang down, 

Nae farther maun ye flee ; 
For these are sounds ye maunna hear, 

And sights ye maunna see !" 

The birdie turned him to the earth, 

The bairnies to the sky, 
While the seraph strain awoke again 

To welcome them wi 9 joy ! 

O ! here, however green the stem, 

The blossoms fade away ; — 
But, lovely ones, yeVe reached the land 

Where flowerets ne'er decay ! 






281 



IT'S OH! GIN I WERE YOUNG AGAIN. 

It's oh ! gin I were young again, 

It's oh ! gin I were young, 
Nae faithless swain should e'er again 

Deceive wi' flattering tongue. 

The primrose to the e'e of morn 

Ne'er blossomed forth sae gay, 
As did my hopes of happiness 

In love's young gowden day. 

But joy's short hour, by cloud an' shower, 

Was quickly overcast, 
And sorrow came, for love's young flame 

It canna always last 

My lover left me for the deep, 

But promised to be true, 
Till nature seven times o'er the earth 

Its beauty did renew. 



282 IT'S OH ! GIN I WERE YOUNG AGAIN. 

The parting was a waesome hour, 
And sae was mony a day ; 

But aye the thought o' his return 
Beguiled the time away. 

Yet seven times did the lily fair 
In beauty come an' gang, 

And seven times did the simmer gale 
Waft down the cuckoo's sang ; 

And seven times winter, angry, cauld, 
Blew frae the Norlan' main ; 

And seven times simmer's bonnie face 
Came smiling back again ; 

And seven times did the day return 
That he gaed ower the sea, 

But yet, for a' his solemn vows, 
He ne'er returned to me. 

In ocean deep he doesna sleep, 

I canna that deplore ; 
He's wedded to a foreign bride, 

And on a foreign shore. 



IT'S OH ! GIN I WERE YOUNG AGAIN. 283 

They tell me that wi' jewels rare 

In beauty she does shine ; 
But can she boast a warmer heart, 

Or fonder love than mine ? 

And, oh ! gin I were young again, 

And, oh ! gin I were young, 
Nae faithless swain should e'er again 

Deceive wi' flattering tongue ! 



284 



TO A SLEEPING INFANT. 

Sleep, fond one ! in thy dreams, 
How soft thine eyelids close ! 

No thoughts of sorrow cloud thy mind, 
Nor trouble thy repose ! 

A smile of joy half steals 

Across thy face so fair ; 
And round thy brow, of purest white, 

Bright falls thy golden hair ! 

So sleeps the lily pale 

At calm of dewy eve, 
When sunbeams, and the birds of song, 

Its flowery blossoms leave ! 

So sleeps at morning hour 

The softly blushing rose, 
Ere o'er the earth the blessed sun 

His golden glory throws ! 



TO A SLEEPING INFANT. 285 

Sleep on, thou lovely child ! 

Thy dreams are far away, 
To where the fields are ever green, 

The landscape ever gay ! 

Thine eye betrays no tear — 

Thy bosom heaves no sigh ; 
But like a thing of love and light, 

Thou peacefully dost he ! 

Long days of bliss be thine ; 

And on thy placid brow 
May joy and peace for ever dwell, 

As calm as they do now ! 

Ah me ! bright days were mine, 

Could I, with spirit free, 
Forget past woes and future cares, 

And sleep as soft as thee ! t 



286 



O ! THE MERRY HUNTING DAYS ARE 
GONE. 



O ! the merry hunting days are gone, 

When gallant hearts led beauty on 

O'er moorland wild, or winding hill, 

When hounds were fleet and horns were shrill ! 

But summer's fled, and winter's come, 

No more my dog and I can roam ; 

Yet, when flowers are fair, and fields are dry, 

To the hunting go my dog and I. 

The day is short, the night is cold, 
And darkness falls o'er glen and wold, 
Save when the sun shows feebly bright, 
One snowy waste of endless white ! 



O ! THE MERRY HUNTING DAYS ARE GONE. 287 

How changed from days when hunter's horn 
Awoke the lark at early morn ! 
For days like these I fondly sigh, 
When a-hunting go my dog and I. 

In slumbers deep my dog does lie, 
Save when he dreams of fields gone by, 
And, starting, thinks he still does trace 
The bygone glories of the chase ! 
Sleep on, my dog ! for fierce winds blow, 
And streams run hoarse 'neath ice and snow ; 
But when summer comes, and fields are dry, 
To the hunting go my dog and I. 

The wandering minstrel's at my door, 
A homeless pilgrim, old and poor : 
Come in, lone man, and wake a chime 
Of song and tale of olden time ! 
Recall those scenes still in my mind, 
Of stag before, and steed behind ! 
The storm is loud, but the time draws nigh 
When a-hunting go my dog and L 

Strike loud the harp, fill high the wine, 
Fair hands will spread that couch of thine ; 



288 THE BARD OF SONG ROSE IN THE WEST. 

One night in dreams forget thy woes, 
Though minstrel's sleep is short repose ! 
The wanderer sleeps ; ah ! soon, forlorn, 
He'll sleep that sleep which knows no morn ! 
Yet, o'er his grave oft will I sigh, 
When a-hunting go my dog and I. 



THE BARD OF SONG ROSE IN THE WEST. 

(WRITTEN FOR BURNS' ANNIVERSARY, 1834.) 

The bard of song rose in the west, 

And gladdened Coila's land, 
The badge of fame was on his brow, 

Her sceptre in his hand. 

The minstrel Muse beheld her son, 

While glory round him shone, 
Walk forth to kindle with his glance 

Whate'er he looked upon ! 






THE BARD OF SONG ROSE IN THE WEST. 289 

She saw the green earth where he strayed 

Acquire a greener hue, 
And sunny skies high o'er his head 

Assume a brighter blue. 

She saw him strike his rustic harp, 

In cadence wild and strong : 
His song was of bold freedom's land — 

Of Scotland was his song ! 

He soared not 'mong aerial clouds, 

Beyond the mortal ken ; 
His song was of the moorland wild, 

The happy homes of men. 

Or of our battle chiefs, who rose 

To his enraptured view — 
He knelt before the Bruce's crown, 

And sword that Wallace drew ! 

Their deeds inspired his martial strains, 

He marked the patriot band 
Who stood, 'mid dark and stormy days, 

The guardians of our land. 

T 



290 THE BARD OF SONG ROSE IN THE WEST, 

" All hail! my son/' the Muse she cried, 
" Thy star shall ne'er decline ; 

A deathless name, and lasting fame, 
Shall ever more be thine !" 

Fain had she said, " and length of days," 
But thus she boding sung — 

" Away, away, nor longer stay, 
Thy parting knell hath rung !" 

The Minstrel sighed, and from his harp 

A few sad tones there fell ; 
They told of honours — all too late, 

And of his last farewell! 

They told of fame, when he no more 
Would need a cold world's fame — - 

Of proud memorials to his name, 
When he was but a name ! — - 

Of pride, of contumely, and scorn — 
The proud man's passing by — 

The Minstrel left to die on earth, 
Yet lauded to the sky ! 



IT WAS 'bout, &c. 291 

'Tis past ! — and yet there lives a voice 

That thrills the chords among : 
'Tis — Scotland's song shall be of Burns, 

Who gave to Scotland song ! 



IT WAS 'BOUT THE AULD HANSEL 
MONANDAY TIME. 

It was 'bout the Auld Hansel Monanday time. 
When dancin', an' drinkin', an' singin' 's nae crime, 
That a canty auld carle cam' down by the burn, 
An' towards our dwallin' his feet he did turn. 

The gudeman cried, " Eppie ! gae rise, let him in." 
" Ye're welcome, auld man, to our feastin' an' din ; 
What news do ye bring frae the kintra or town ?" 
Sae we dichted a chair, an' he sat himsel down. 



292 IT WAS ; EOUT THE 

Across his braid shouthers a Scotch plaid was flung, 
At his feet was a dog, and his hand held a rung ; 
An' his auld-fashant coat, o' patches no few, 
Might, thretty years syne, hae aiblins been new ! 

A braw demas' wais'coat, the best o' his claes, 
Sair worn — like its owner, bespak better days ; 
But his white sark, sae hale, as if just frae the loom, 
Shawed a pride in the heart, though the pouch 
might be toom ! 

Strange ferlies he tauld us, an' braw sangs he sung, 
Wi' the sense o' the auld, an' the wit o' the young, 
An' sae weel they cam' in, an' sae fine they did 

chime, 
That they seemed as they'd a' just been made for 

the time. 

He toomed out the bicker, an' whanged down the 

cheese, 
Than the gudeman himsel he seemed mair at his 

ease; 
But yet, naething forward, nor saucy, nor high, 
Twas the ease o' a king when his crown is laid by ! 



[ 



AULD HANSEL MONANDAY TIME. 293 

He touzled the lasses, an' joked wi' the men, 

He drank aff his cappie, an' crackit again : 

His noddle wi' lair was fu' to the brim, 

E'en auld Rabbie Gordon had nae chance wi' him ! 

The lads were dumfoun'ered, the lasses amazed, 
An' Saunders Kilpatrick sat gaping, an' gazed; 
An' Willie Carmichael, in wham gude sense lies, 
Said something 'bout folk being lords in disguise ! 

Sae kindly he spak to the lasses sae braw, 
That you'd thocht the auld carle was courtin' them a' ; 
But there aye was a dignity mixed wi' his fun, 
An' his e'e claimed that rev'rence his arm could hae 
won. 

Fell stories he tauld us of battles an' scars, 
He spak o' the Turks an' the Wallington wars — - 
But his picture of Waterloo made our hearts sair, 
An' the round siller medal shawed he had been 
there ! 

Sic a blithe happy group was ne'er seen afore, 
An' the doggie an' bairns were as thick on the floor ; 



294 



IT WAS *BOUT, &C 



For the curly wee corporal, sae pawkie air slee, 
Seemed to share, wi' his master, the daffin' an' glee ! 

But the blithest that meet, be't in cot or in ha', 
Maun aye dree the fell thocht o' gangin' awa' ; 
If the meeting gie pleasure, the parting gies pain- 
Shall we e'er see the canty auld carle again ? 

When the wee stamies peeped ower the auld castle 

wa', 
Our canty auld carle said — " Fare ye weel a' P 
We pressed him to bide, but he wadna sit still, 
But said he'd be back when the snaw left the hill. 



The auld folk were grieved, an' the wee bairnies 

grat, 
An' looked to the place where the auld man had sat: 
We sought him in hamlet, we sought him in glen, 
But the canty auld carle cam* ne'er back again ! 



295 



THERE CAM' TO OUR VILLAGE A 
STRANGER. 

There cam' to our village a stranger, 

A braw chiel frae braw Lon'on town, 
An' aff a braw naig at the alehouse 

Fu' brawly he lighted him down. 
The landlord, auld Rabbi e M< Vicar, 

Wi' booing I wat didna spare, 
Said, " Walcome to this our plain dwallin', 

Yet bravely I vow ye sail fare ! 

" I'll thraw round the neck o' a chuckie, 

The fattest e'er ran on twa legs ; 
I'll slit up the craig o' a grumphie, 

They mak' famous eatin' — young pigs ! 
There's a clag o' cowheel on a trencher, 

A gude haggis sooms i' the pat, 
An' Girzy, ye see, 's makin' puddin's ; — - 

What else could we do wi' the fat ? 



296 THERE CAM' TO OUR VILLAGE A STRANGER, 

" The paitricks play whirr! 'mang the claver, 

The trouties dance by in the burn ; 
It's fine to kill birds an' catch fishes, 

An' eat them when ance we return. 
An' after a's done, we've a drappie, — 

The gauger ye'll surely no tell, — 
I say we sail hae a gude cappie, 

We whiles brew the whisky our sell 

" For beuks we've a gay wheen amang us, 

We've somebody's something on law ; 
We've Burns c complete in ae volume,' 

But then the best half o't 's awa' ! 
We yince had a Patie and Roger, 

I think we've still gatten a part, 
But auld Tibby Gowans, the howdie, 

Can rhyme owre the maist o't by heart 

" For sangs, ye may hae half a hun'er ; 

Our Jenny hersel can sing ten ; 
The ' Braw lads o" famed Q Gala water,' 

An' the lass that made love to Tarn Glen. 
There's Sandy McGregor, the piper, 

His music might charm down a saunt : 



THERE CAM' TO OUR VILLAGE A STRANGER. 297 

I, mysel, am a bit of a scraper, 

Sae what the deil else wad ye want ? 

" There's twa three droll folk in the village, 

For sample I'se name ye a few : 
There's Jamie Macfarlane, the skipper, 

He's been whaur the oranges grew. 
An' there's Eppie Blake, decent bodie, 

Brings cookies frae Auld Reekie's town : 
Na, mair — she sells tea, tripe, an' soda, 

An' sugar baith candied and brown. 

" I've a sword that shed bluid at Culloden ; 

O' Charlie's gowd locks I've a hair ; 
A shoe that has Africa trodden — 

It belanged to Mungo Park's mare ! 
Then sic is a spice o' our village, 

O' what you may baith eat an' see ; 
An' now, by the ghaist o' my gutcher ! 

We'll hae ben a bottle an' pree !" 



298 



O TELL ME, GIN THOU WERT A KING. 

O tell me, gin thou wert a king. 

What pleasure would be thine ? 
Wouldst thou for pearls explore the deep. 

For diamonds search the mine ? 
To sparkle on thy silken robes, 

Or glitter on thy crown, 
W r ith lords and ladies worshipping 

Thy glory and renown ? 

O tell me, gin thou wert a king, 

What pleasure would be thine ? 
Would sumptuous banquets be thy fare, 

Thy drink the ruby wine ? 
W r ith ladies fair to sing to thee 

The minstrel's sweetest lay, 
And lords to laugh at ilka word 

That thou wert pleased to say ? 



O TELL ME, GIN THOU WERT A KING. 299 

O tell me, gin thou wert a king, 

What pleasure would be thine ? 
Wouldst thou for feats of chivalry 

Or deeds of valour shine ? 
Or follow at the gallant chase, 

Or lead the glorious war, 
Returning with the laurelled brow, 

And breast with honour's star ? 

O tell me, gin thou wert a king, 

What pleasure would be thine ? 
Wouldst thou pursue the road to fame, 

And woo the fickle Nine ? 
Have earth to laud thy heaven-born strains, 

And praise thy witching theme ? 
Enjoy the dream of poesy? — 

It is a pleasing dream ! 

O tell me, gin thou wert a king, 

What pleasure would be thine ? 
Wouldst thou cause genius cease to mourn, 

An 5 poortith cease to pine ? 
Bring halcyon days to all thy land, 

Such as the poets sing ? 



300 O TELL ME, GIN THOU WERT A KING. 

What pleasure would be thine, O ! tell, 
Gin thou wert made a king ? 

O gin I were a king, I'll tell 

The pleasure mine should be : 
I'd have nor wealth, nor fame, nor power, 

Nor cruel tyrannie ; 
Nor lords nor ladies gay should wait 

Upon me, or my crown, 
Save ane, whase bonnie smiling face 

Would gar them a' look down ! 

Without a crown, this bonnie lass 

Would mak' a king o' me ; 
And, had I ane, this bonnie lass 

My lovely queen should be : 
The pearl might sleep in ocean's bed, 

The diamond in the mine, 
A fairer jewel I would hae 

In bonnie Madaline ! 



301 



STANZAS WRITTEN IN MISS -'S 

ALBUM. 

Wake, my harp, from out thy slumbers, 
While I strike thy trembling string ; 

Waken now thy sweetest numbers, 
Sweet as her for whom I sing ! 

Not to deeds of martial story — 
Not to strains of tyrants' fall — 

Not to songs of freedom's glory — 
Waken now to beauty's call ! 

Waken ! for thou long hast slumber'd; 

Waken ! for I bid thee wake ; 
Waken ! for thy tones I've number'd ; — 

Sound them all for Mary's sake ! 

Strains of joy, and strains of sadness, 
Strains of grief, and strains of glee ; 

Wailings now of woe or madness, 

Harp of my soul, have fall'n from thee 



302 STANZAS WRITTEN IN MISS 's ALBTM. 

Oft thy tones have come unbidden, 
Oft I've trembled when they came, 

Wak'ning pangs of love long hidden, 
Pangs I may not, cannot name ! 

Still, though anxious days of sorrow 

Follow weary nights of pain, 
One more song, oh ! let me borrow, 

Harp of my soul, awake again ! 

Music kindles 'neath my fingers — 
Hark ! 'tis swelling deep and strong ; 

Listen while the spirit lingers, 
Hear its high prophetic song : — 

" Fairest lady, thine be ever 

Days of peace, with nought of care ; 

In thy bosom pure may never 
Sorrow find a dwelling there ! 



• o 



" Be life's landscape one of brightness, 
O'er whose sky no clouds are driven ; 

Colours all of purest whiteness, 

Mixed with rainbow-tints of heaven !" 



303 



WHAT'S IN A NAME! 



What's in a name ? O ! there is much, 
And Shakspeare well its magic knew, 

When he, with more than Raphael touch, 
Such lovely, living portraits drew ! 

What's in a name ? O ! it is sweet 
To name the name I love so well, 

Around it all the graces meet, 
Within it all the cupids dwell. 

Tis music's self, and song's bright soul, 
To hear that name I love to hear, 

Even passion's rage it does control, 
To name that name to me so dear. 



304 what's in a name ? 

Tis sweet as her who it does claim, 
Enough all men to lovers make ; 

And did you know my fair one's name, 
You'd almost love her for its sake ! 

What's in a name ? Go ask the flowers 

What's in the sun when he does shine ? 
Or ask this lovely world of ours, 
What were it but for Madaline ! t 



305 



STANZAS.* 

(written among the ruins of a village church.) 

Behold ! the roofless Village Church, 

With tower and turrets riven ; 
This is the house of God no more, 

No more the gate of Heaven ! 

Its altars fallen, in ruins He, 

Its walls grow to decay ; 
Its very burial mounds are gone, 

Its monuments away ! 

Dread Time ! how mighty is thy strength, 

Thy power what can outbrave ! 
When thus we mark thy ravages 

On the enduring grave ! 

* This and the two following pieces were written for the " Scottish Christian 
Herald." 

U 



306 STANZAS. 

What time the Sabbath morn comes round, 

The week's sad toilings o'er, 
We see the train of villagers 

Assemble here no more ! 

The voice of psalms and joyfiilness, 
Of prayer — when hearts did bow — 

The worship, and the worshippers, 
Alas ! where are they now ! 

Lo ! in the dark and silent tomb, 
The voiceless throng is there ; 

None weeps for them, none weeps for thee, 
Thou lonely house of prayer ! 

'But could those prison doors of death 

Be opened unto day, 
Where sleep the countless multitudes 
Of ages passed away : 

Then would a numerous band come forth 

And claim a kindred here, 
And mourn to see thy mouldering walls, 

That naked thus appear ! 



STANZAS. 307 

The hollow winds sweep through the courts 

Where wild the nettle grows ; 
And there the owl has found a home 

Where heavenly songs arose ! 

Even now, methinks, I hear a strain 

Come from those aisles so dim ; 
And thus the viewless Choristers 

Chant forth their solemn hymn : 

" Time's things they change ! Time's sons they die, 

And time is on the wing, 
That shortly to a final close 

All earthly pomp shall bring ! 

" The changes of a changing world, 

Behold them every where ; 
Then, mortal, lift thy soul to heaven, 

Nor death, nor change, is there." f 



308 



PARAPHRASE UPON ISAIAH. 

CHAP. XXXV. 

Lo ! in that day when to the just 
God shall Redemption bring ; 

Then every valley shall be glad, 
And all the woods shall sing. 

Yea, they with songs abundantly 
Shall singing thus rejoice — 

Of Lebanon the glory is, 
And her Redeemer's choice. 

The wilderness and desert wild, 
Where green leaf never grows, 

Lo ! they in beauty shall bud forth. 
And blossom as the rose. 



PARAPHRASE UPON ISAIAH, 309 

Say to the weak of heart, Be strong; 

Confirm the feeble knees, 
And bid the drooping hands be raised, 

For God their trouble sees. 

And he their sufferings will avenge. 

Their sorrows will repay, 
And they with joy shall find in him 

A Saviour in that day. 

Then shall the lame leap as the hart, 

The blind shall look and see : 
The deaf shall hear, and of the dumb 

The mouth shall opened be ! 

Then springs shall cheer the wilderness, 

Where weary pilgrims go ; 
And waters from the barren rock 

In living streams shall flow. 

And there the path of holiness 

For just men shall be spread; 
But fools, and those that wicked are, 

That pathway shall not tread- 



310 PARAPHRASE UPON ISAIAH. 

No lion strong, nor ravenous beast, 

Shall find that valley fair ; 
But they — the ransomed of the Lord — 

Shall walk and worship there. 

With songs they shall to Zion come, 

And there for ever stay ; 
And sighs and sorrows, griefs and tears, 

Shall ever flee away ! 






311 



EZEKIEL'S VISION. 

The Spirit of the Lord from heaven 

Upon Ezekiel came ; 
The prophet knew the voice of God, 

And kindled at the same : — 
" This is the valley of the dead, 

Behold it wide and deep ; 
Where, from their troubled dream of life, 

A thousand strong men sleep ! 

" Behold their bones in countless heaps, 

That blanched and withered lie." — 
The prophet look'd upon the bones, 

And they were very dry. 
" Say, son of man, can these bones live, 

In which no life-springs dwell ?" 
The prophet answer'd, " O ! Lord God ! 

'Tis thou alone canst tell!" 



312 ezekiel's vision. 

" Then bid them hear the word of God, 

And this that word shall be — 
Awake, ye dead men, from your sleep. 

The Lord shall set you free ; 
New flesh upon your bones shall come, 

And skin shall gather there ; 
And round the clouded brow of death 

I'll stamp my image fair : 

" And breath I'll give, that ye again 

Your Maker's praise shall sing, 
Then shall ye know that I am God, 

Your Saviour and your King !" 
The prophet raised his voice and cry'd, 

u Ye dead men, now awake !" 
And, lo ! a mighty noise was heard, 

And all the bones did shake. 

And bone to bone together came, 

Each bone into its place, 
But cold and lifeless was each form, 

And ghastly was each face ; — 
The eye had not yet light — the mouth, 

Unmoving, still was dumb, 
And from the heart no living stream 

In purple tide did come. 



ezekiel's vision. 313 

" Call on the four winds, bid them blow, 

And breathe upon the slain, 
That they may wake to life once more, 

And walk the earth again !" 
" Come forth, ye winds of heaven ! obey 

His voice who bids ye blow ; 
And raise the sleepers from their sleep, 

Whom death has long laid low." 

The winds obey in songs : — they shout, 

In lofty notes, his praise ; 
And high as ever angel soared, 

Their voices forth they raise. 
The dead men startle at the sound, 

The breath of life is given 
By Him who walks upon the wind, 

And rules the host of heaven ! 

The prophet gaz'd with fear and awe 

To see this living band, 
That grew an army great in power — 

That covered all the land. 
" Who are the sleepers ? — Who the dead ? 

Once blind, but now who see ? 
Whence is the vision of the bones ? 

And what may those things be ?" 



314 ezekiel's vision. 

ee These are the lost of Israel, who, 

Wandering from the way, 
Refuse the Witness sent from God, 

Their only hope and stay ; 
Who sleep in darkness and in death, 

And scattered o'er the plain, 
Till God's free Spirit o'er them come, 

And call to life again. 

" Dark winter now around them reigns, 

And dreary is their tomb ; 
But summer yet shall o'er them smile, 

And bid the valley bloom. 
Then shall their dry bones quicken'd be, 

And they shall hear his word, 
And know that Jesus reigns as King, 

The great and mighty Lord !" 



315 



SONG OF PEACE. 

Awake the Song of Peace — 

Let nations join the strain; 
The march of blood, and pomp of war, 

We will not have again ! 
Let fruit-trees crown our fields, 

And flowers our valleys fair ; 
And on our mountain steeps — the songs 

Of happy swains be there ! 

Our maidens shall rejoice, 

And bid the timbrel sound ; 
Soft dreams no more shall broken be 

With drums parading round. 
No tears for lovers slain, 

From lovely eyes shall fall ; 
But music and the dance shall come 

In halcyon joy to all ! 



316 SONG OF PEACE. 

The rider and his steed — 

Their path of fame is o'er ; 
The trumpet and the trumpeter 

Shall squadrons rouse no more ! 
No fields of vict'ry won, 

With blade and battle brand ! 
A nobler triumph shall be ours — 

A bright and happy land ! 

Too long the man of blood 

Hath ruled without control ; 
Nor widows' tears, nor orphans' sighs, 

Could touch his iron soul ! 
But, lo ! the Mighty's fallen— 

And from his lofty brow 
The chaplet fades that circled there- — 

Where are his trophies now ? 

Look to the countless graves 

Where sleep the thousands slain ! 
The morning songs no more call forth 

The stirring bands again ! 
The din, the strife is past, 

Of foe with falling foe — 
The grassy leaves wave o'er their heads, 

And quiet they rest below ! 






SONG OF PEACE. 317 

Sound high the harp of song, 

And raise the joyous strain ; 
But war's rough note be it ne'er heard 

To swell the chords again. 
Put all its trappings past — 

Vain pomp of bygone years : 
To ploughshares grind the pointed swords, 

To pruning-hooks the spears ! 

Come, man, to brother man, 

Come in the bond of peace ; 
Then strife and war, with all their train 

Of dark'ning woe, shall cease. 
Come, with that spirit free, 

That art and science give ; 
Come, with the patient mind for truth, 

Seek it, and ye shall live ! 

Then earth shall yield her fruits — 

The seasons forth shall bring ; 
And summer fair shall gather sweets 

From sunny bowers of spring ! 
While autumn mellow comes 

With full and liberal hand ; 
And gladness then shall fill each heart 

Through all the happy land. + 



318 



THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE. 

The poor man's grave ! this is the spot 

Where rests his weary clay ; 
And yet no gravestone lifts its head, 

To say what gravestones say ! 
No sculptured emblems blazon here, 

No weeping willows wave, 
No faint memorial, e'er so faint, 

Points out the poor man's grave ! 

No matter — he as soundly sleeps, 

As softly does repose, 
Though marbled urn around his grave 

No idle incense throws ! 
His lowly turf it burdens not, 

Yet that is ever green ; 
And, hopping near it oft at mora, 

The little redbreast's seen ! 



I 



THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE. 319 

For none disturbs the poor man's grave — 

To touch it who would dare, 
Save some kind hand to smooth the grass, 

That grows all wildly there ! 
The poor man's grave ! call it his home — 

From sorrow all secure — 
For woe and want vex him no more, 

Whom Fortune stamped as poor ! 

The poor man's grave ! — a lesson learn, 

And profit by't who can — 
Here lies a man all nobly poor, 

And yet an honest man ! 
He was a man well known for worth, 

But all unknown to fame ; 
And yet within his village bounds 

He did not lack a name ! 

For all the village came to him, 

When they had need to call ; 
His counsel free to all was given, 

For he was kind to all ! 
The young, the old, the sick, the hale, 

Found him a friend most sure ; 
For he rejoiced in others' weal, 

Although himself was poor 1 



320 THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE, 

And yet not poor ; for calm content 

Made all that he possess'd 
Be cherished with a grateful heart, 

Which made it doubly blest. 
Serene 'mid ills, — to age resigned, 

His days in peace did flow — 
His timeward pilgrimage is past, 

And now he sleeps below ! 

A happy man! — though on life's shoals 

His bark was roughly driven, 
Yet still he braved the surge — because 

His anchorage was in Heaven ! 
I know no more — what more would'st know, 

Since death deliverance gave : 
His spirit took its flight on high — 

This is the poor man's grave ! f 



321 



"THERE IS MUCH BETWEEN THE CUP 
AND THE LIP." 

In years gone by, when life was young, 

The tide of joy to flow began: 
I stoop'd to cool my parched tongue, 

But still the waters past me ran ! 
I rush'd to chase the giddy stream 

That onward, onward still, did flow ; 
Thinking the race a pleasing dream, 

And only woke to find it woe ! 

With calmer step, and cooler eye, 

I sought fair pleasure's sunny sea ; 
The shores were green, and clear the sky, 

And every wave danc'd wild and free ! 
I touch'd the brink ! — when backward flew 

The waves that lately kiss'd the shore : 
The sky around all inky grew, 

And darkness came — where light before. 



322 " THERE IS MUCH BETWEEN 

I hied me where a fountain play'd, 

Whose waters upwards gushing came ; 
And, oh ! how lovely was the maid 

That held the cup whence flowed the same ! 
" This is the fount of love," she cried ; 

And though the goblet oft was mine. 
Some hand still dashed that cup aside, 

Before I drank the rocky wine I 

Next friendship's stream I gazed upon, 

And glorious did that stream appear ; 
And many a voice, like music's tone, 

Rose from its wave upon mine ear ! 
te Give me to drink this water pure, 

And lasting friendship mine shall be :' ; 
Alas ! while still it did allure, 

It join'd thy shores, Eternity ! 

The tide of wealth roll'd proud along, 

Its wavelets of a golden hue ; 
And thousands stoop'd with impulse strong, 

And I would taste its waters too. 
I raised the cup, but ere I drank, 

A giddy madness seized my brain ; 



THE CUP AND THE LIP." 323 

And while I poured, its waters sank 
Back to its feverish stream again ! 

Joy, pleasure, love, and wealth, I've sought, 

Earth's baubles, how I hate ye all ! 
Ye hold your cup ! — ah ! dearly bought — 

I've found your waters from me fall ! 
One cup ! — no hand shall dash away, 

Whose bitter dregs will soon be mine : 
Death pours the draught, and seems to say — ? 

" This cup, at least, is certain thine !" f 



324 



THE PSEUDO AUTHOR, 

I cannot get a publisher ! — - 

My case is very hard ; 
I've struggled long to gain the name 

Of novelist or bard ; 
IVe six Romances cut and dry, 

Of Epics 1 have more ; 
I've written ballads by the yard, 

And sonnets by the score. 

One morn I penn'd a Tragedy, 

A bloody tale of woe, 
It breath'd of daggers, fire, and death, 

With four mad scenes or so ; 
I read it to a manager 

From curtain's rise to fall, 
He bade me cut it to a farce — 

The crudest cut of all. 






THE PSEUDO AUTHOR. 325 

I cannot get a publisher ! — 

They say the press is free — 
Alas! the freedom of the press 

No freedom brings to me. 
A slave to dactyles, anapaests, 

Iambics and spondees, 
The " well of English undefiled" 

I've drained ev'n to the lees, 

I try to break my chain, and dive 

In Learning's deepest mines, 
And yet, in place of getting free, 

I'm caught in my own lines : 
My prose, in periods rounded smooth, 

And turned with nicest care 5 
Will soon a period put to me, 

Or plunge me in despair. 

My syntax is admired by all — 

Keep talent out of view — 
But I cannot get a publisher ! 

So what am I to do ? 
They talk of patrons in the " trade," 

To which I quite agree, 



326 THE PSEUDO AUTHOB. 

But when I call on one or all, 
They will not trade with me. 

I wrote to Colburn, hoping he 

Would hand me up to fame, 
And waited on the tenter-hooks 

Till out the Monthly came ; 
But not a line or scrap of mine 

Could I find printed there. 
Save « To < O. O.' we say, Oh ! Oh P 

Which drove me to despair ! 

Then Murray of Albemarle Street, 

To him I bent my way — 
He said his hands were filled by all 

The first pens of the day : 
Pshaw ! 'tis too bad — were I shown up 

In Quarterly Review, 
How does he know but I might rank 

A first-rate writer too ! 

E'en Longman has turned short with me, 
And Cadell scarce will bow: 

Macrone, he was a crony once — 
He's not a crony now ! 



THE PSEUDO AUTHOR- 327 

They're all alike ; — Simpkin & Co. 

Looked o'er some lines of mine, 
And now they send a line to say— 

They are not in that line. 

I wrote to Dublin, but IVe got 

No answer to my prayer. 
Although I wished most anxiously 

To Curry favour there. 
I thought the Modern Athens might 

Afford some chance for me, 
So, charged with trunk, high pressure crammed. 

I thither hied with glee. 

But there the same sad want of taste 

I found even to the full ; 
They said my grave works were too lights 

My light works far too dull. 
Blackwood at once did black hall me, 

And Tait — 'twas silly spite — 
Showed me a snuff-shop where they'd buy 

As much as I could write. 

The Printing Company I tried, 
Thinking we might agree ; 



328 THE PSEUDO AUTHOR, 

Alas ! they won't make company 
With either mine or me ! 

Then Oliver I thought would take 
My tale, * Roland the True ;" 

But a " Roland for an Oliver" 
I found here would not do. 



The Chamberses their chambers keep 

Whene'er on them I call, 
And Bradfute quickly makes light foot 

Between me and the wall ; 
And he who talked of " types" and " tomes" 

Has also turned my foe — 
Ye're no sae kind's you should hae been, 

John Anderson, my joe ! 

I cannot get a publisher ! 

And what is to be done ? 
My Perryian pen will pen no more, 

My inky stream is run — 
Go get a goose-quill ! sink expense ! 

Come, wind, blow rack or rain, 
Big with a summer Tragedy, 

I'll try the field again ! 1 



329 



INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALBUM. 

Fair book of snowy leaves, I come 

Thy destiny to tell ; 
Here love and song shall find a home, 

And here shall beauty dwell. 

The thoughts, warm from the heart or mind, 

That knows no woe or care, 
Safe, in thy silken folds, shall find 

A dwelling fit and fair ! 

Young Fancy, from her sunny bowers, 
Shall here her wreath entwine ; 

And here shall summer's fairest flowers 
In all their brightness shine ! 

The rose no winter here shall know, 

The lily no decay ; 
The hare-bell, in perpetual blow, 

Shall never fade away ! 



330 INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALBUM, 

Here Music, from her throne on high, 
Shall sound the golden lyre ; 

Her thrilling tones they cannot die — 
Here lives her sacred fire ! 

Here, from her shade, sweet Poesy 
Shall wake her voice and sing, 

In strains of softest minstrelsy, 
Like bird of merry spring ! 

Or melting low, in dying fall, 
The wood-nymph shall reveal 

The hopes, the fears, the sorrows all, 
That lovers ever feel ! 

While this thy fate, thou infant book, 

Of many tinted hue, 
May all who in thy pages look 

Find lovers ever true ! 



ji 



331 

STANZAS TO AUTUMN. 

There is a melancholy song 

Comes from yon aged tree ; 
It tells of summer days now fled, 
Of flow'rets dying all, or dead, 

Of leaves that withered be. 

The primrose of the dewy spring, 

The rose of summer gay, 
The lily by the shining stream, 
And moorland hare-bell, like a dream, 

Have vanish'd all away. 

The mournful winds of autumn come 

In sadness on the blast ; 
And every leaf they bear along 
Joins in the melancholy song, 

That summer horn's are past. 

And save that plaintive strain, that seems 

A requiem for the flowers, 
No music wakens in the grove, 
No birds chant forth their notes of love, 

In summer's sunny bowers. 



332 STANZAS TO AUTUMN. 

But not thy song, thou lonely bird, 

Though mournful be thy song, 
Is half so sad, or half so drear, 
As autumn's moaning voice to hear 
The rustling leaves among. 

And yet ere long, sweet bird, thou'lt sing 

A glad and happy strain, 
When, from the gentle budding spring, 
The smiling sun shall flow'rets bring 

To beauty back again. 

But I must mourn a flow'ret fallen, 

Whose presence charms no more : — 
No spring, when balmy breezes blow, 
Nor summer sun — my flow'ret low, 
To gladness shall restore ! 

Then welcome autumn's wailing song, 

Or winter's sullen gloom ; 
The dark, the joyless, and the drear, 
Best suits with those which nought can cheer, 

Whose heart is in the tomb ! f 



333 



STANZAS TO JULIA. 

Pour forth the cup of fame 

To those who high would shine ; 

A prouder wreath I'd weave for thee— 
A happy home be thine ! 

Some sparkle in the throng, 

Some charm within the hall ; 
But thou, with native loveliness, 

Shedd'st glory over all ! 

Bright flow'rets fade away, 

The loved of look and name ; 
But thou, 'mid years of chance and change, 

Still bloom'st to us the same ! 

Thine eye is still as bright, 

Thy cheek is still as fair, 
Though round thy form, like olive plants, 

The fond ones gather there 



334 STANZAS TO JULIA. 

Healthy peace, and joy to all, 
Through many passing years, 

Shower down on each a mother's love, 
" But spare a mother's tears !" 

Nor 'mid our fond requests, 
Fair Julia, made for thee, 

Would we forget thy bosom's lord. 
The generous and the free ! 

He needs no honours given, 
When men fill* high the wine ; 

His glory and his honour is, 
To hold that heart of thine ! 

When life's rough blast is o'er, 
By which man's bark is driven, 

May thou and thine an anchor find 
Within the port of heaven ! 



335 



HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN. 



Sun of the firmament ! — Planet of wonderment ! 

Now thy far journey of day it is done ; 
Still art thou parting bright — shedding immortal 
light 

Down on thy throne of night, hail ! setting sun ! 

Though we're in sadness — yet nations in gladness 
Are waiting to worship thee, fountain of light ! 

Where'er thy footsteps be, there do we beauty see, 
Thou kindlest day in the dwellings of night ! 

Where sleeps the thunder, there dost thou wander, 
Down 'neath the ocean deep there dost thou stray 



336 HYMN TO THE SETTING SUN. 

Kissing the stars at morn, high in the air up borne, 
Skirting creation's far verge on thy way ! 

Slow thou depart'st away — far from the realms of 
day, 

Ling'ring in pity on summer's loved bowers : 
Thy last ray is streaming, thy farewell tint gleaming, 

Yet soon thou'lt appear to refreshen the flowers ! 

Grandeur and glory, — they travel before thee, 
Brightness and majesty walk in thy train : 

Darkness it flies from thee, clouds may not rise to 
thee, 
When thou awak'st from the ocean again ! 

All own thy influence — kindly thou dost dispense 
Blessings o'er Nature where'er its bounds be ; 

Afric's lone desert, it blooms at thy presence, 
And Lapland is turned into summer by thee ! 

Time cannot conquer thee, age cannot alter thee, 
Years have no power to limit thy sway ; 

Strength and sublimity, still they attend on thee, 
Pilgrim of ages ! — but not of decay ! 



the poet's inheritance. 337 

Sun of the firmament ! Planet of wonderment ! 

Now thy far journey of day it is done ; 
Still art thou parting bright — shedding immortal 
light, 
Down on thy throne of night, hail ! setting sun ! 

t 



1 
THE POET'S INHERITANCE. 

What is the bard's inheritance ? 

Whence do his pleasures flow ? 
Are his the joys that fortune yields — - 

That wealth and power bestow ? 
A nobler heritage is his, 

Far in the shady bowers, 
With all the woodlands waving green, 

And all the world of flowers. 

For him a thousand songsters sing 

In brambly brake, or dell ; 
Their language is not known to all, 

But he doth know it well ! 

y 



338 the poet's inheritance. 

The linnet pours to him her plaint, 
The stock-dove tells her woes ; 

The thrush unfolds to him her tale, 
In words no other knows. 

The sunny streamlets, silver bright, 

For him in gladness run ; 
And he partakes of every joy 

That sparkles 'neath th^sun. 
'Tis his to strew each path with flowers. 

Life's pilgrimage along ; 
His mornings are with music crown'd, 

His evenings close with song ! 

And, oh ! how bright are poets' dreams, 

All free from care or pain ! 
They rise from lowly earth to heaven, 

And come from heaven again. 
They picture forth a world of joy, 

All lovely to the view, 
Where woman reigns in virgin pride, 

And virgin beauty too ! 

They are not poor whom men call poor, 
For there's a glory given 



the poet's inheritance. 339 

To all who bow at Nature's shrine, 

Be't ocean, earth, or heaven ! 
And who is Nature's worshipper 

Like him who walks abroad, 
And talks with woods, and hills, and streams, 

The children of his God ! 

There is a bound to wealth and fame, 

A limit given to power ; 
And soon the pomp and pride of state 

Exhaust their little hour ! 
But what can bound the poet's soul — 

What chain his spirit free ? 
He bursteth o'er the bounds of time, 

And grasps eternity ! f 



340 



ODE. 

WRITTEN FOB THE SHAKSPEABE CLUB OF SCOTLAND, 
9TH OCTOBER 1839. 

No wreaths we bring, no honours pay, 

To raise our poet's fame ; 
We merely lift the cup, this day, 

And whisper Shakspeare's name ! 

That name, o'er Nature's farthest bounds, 
Hath to the winds been given ; 

The ocean speaks it, and it sounds 
Among the stars of heaven ! 

And mountain streams, and torrents wide — 
Dark gushing, deep, and strong — 

In wintry grandeur and in pride, 
Pour forth our poet's songi 






ODE* 341 

While song-birds of the earth and sky, 

That wake the coming day, 
Attune their notes, and sing with joy 

The wild Shaksperian lay ! 

Or by some wild wood, lone and drear — 

Soft moonlight on the land- 
Fancy awakes, and, lo ! you hear 

His sylvan fairy band ! 

But chiefly when fierce passions rise — 
Revenge — Remorse — Despair— 

Or those that speak the fonder ties — 
Then 5 Shakspeare ! thou art there ! 

Thou art not dead — but pass'd away — 

Removed — but art not gone ; 
Though ages with their crumbling sway 

Long over thee have flown ! 

Beside thy harp — loud trumpet-toned — - 

Alike for joy or woe — 
Thou sitt'st 'mong sunbeams high enthroned — 

Dark clouds they roll below ! f 



INDEX TO SONGS. 

Those Pieces, throughout the Volume, marked thus f have 
not appeared informer Editions. 

PAGE 

Ae bonnie day, ae simmer day, . . , 13 

Awake, dearest Madaline, . . . .16 

Awake, ye midnight mariners, ... 23 

Adown the glen the saft winds blaw, . . .36 

A canty sang, O, a canty sang, . . . 45 

Again let us welcome this day mair than ony, . . 49 

Away to the woodlands, . . . .60 

Again the day, the happy day, . . . 61 

Awake the song, and let it flow, . . ,76 

Awake, my harp, thy saftest lay, ... 95 

Again let's hail the cheering spring, . . .105 

Awa', ye cauld lovers, . . . . 114 



344" INDEX TO SONGS. 

PAGE 

Again my native cot appears, . . . .118 

Awa', ye flaunting clays o' spring, . . 138 

A bumper to thee ! a bumper to thee ! . . .150 

Again the circling march of time, . . . 167 

A lowly pilgrim, weak and worn, . . . 170 
Again let us welcome this blithe happy day, . - 172 

Away, boys, away, boys, . . . .195 

Away to the chase, , 200 

Bonnie lassie, fairest lassie, . . . .83 

Blithe, blithe is "Willie Millar, ... 85 

Blithe, blithe, we'll a' be merry, .- . .109 

By Roslin's ancient towers, . . . 123 

Bonnie are the braes, . . . .199 

Come, fill my wine cup to the brim, . . 54 
Come, a' ye. jovial topers, .... 209 

Deep moaned the night, .... 38 

Days of sorrow, nights of mourning, . . .189 

Drink it yet, drink it yet, . . . . 193 
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, .... 242 

Fair was the morn, an' clear the sky, . . 34 

Fare thee well, for I must leave thee, . . .63 

From the land of our sires, ... 78 

Flow, gentle streamlet, . . . .135 

Fair maiden with the bright blue eye, . . 229 

Gather in, gather in, ane an' a', ane an' a', . .156 

Glenyalven, wi' thy valleys green, . . . 217 



INDEX TO SONGS. 



345 



PAGE 

Hurrah! for the foaming sea, my love, . .15 

Hail to the Mystic Band, . . . . 175 

In the days o' langsyne, when we carles were young, . 1 

I sing of the land of auld Scotland, . . 52 

I dream not now ! — the charm is fled, . . .136 

I've aye been fou sin' the year cam' in, . . 164 

I looked long at thy window, love, . . . 204 

I courted Maggie mony a day, „ . . 207 

I heard a maiden plaintive sing, . . . 248 

Like thunders loud the war drum comes, . . 9 

Let galled Greece an fettered Spain, . . .127 

Let younkers boast high of their loves and their joys, 257 

My love is no for gowd nor gear, . . .122 

My Marianne ! why comes she not ? . . 177 

My bonnie Bell, my bonnie Bell, . . . 202 

My home is the Highlands, . . . 240 

My soul's not in the motley throng, . . .251 

Now simmer walks in robes o' green, . . 144 

O ! the flowery month of June, . 7 

O ! thou broom, thou bonnie bush o' broom, . .18 

O ! the bonnie braes of Scotland, . . . 31 

! what is this world, wi' its wealth and renown, . 42 

1 the Queen of merry England, ... 58 

! bid that sun not shine so bright, . . 66 
Of Bessy Bell an' Mary Gray, ... 70 

1 my bark, dost thou long to be free, . . 74 



346 INDEX TO SONGS. 

PAGE 

! this were a bright v/orld, ... 80 

O ! come, my lassie, Calder banks, . . .88 

O ! do ye ken P , the taxman an' vriter, . 90 

On simmer nights, when saft winds blaw, . .101 

O ! the gowan's in the glen, an' the winter is awa', . 103 

O ! Dumferline toun is a bonnie, bonnie toun, . .120 

O, gin I had a keekin' glass, . . . 125 

O, wha are sae happy as me an' my Janet, . .130 

O ! could I lose the power of thought, . . 140 

! the happy days o' youth, . . . .152 
O, my love, night is come, . . . . 157 
O! strike the wild harp, audits chords let them swell, . 161 

1 why left I my hame, . . . . 162 
O ! the lily of the valley, .... 179 
O ! could I but picture my lassie, sae charming, . 183 
O ! Jenny, let this strife be ower, . . .191 
CM lassie, dear lassie, 'tis hard, I declare, . . 197 
One star of the morning still lingers, . . .213 
On Ettrick banks, ae simmer night, . . 219 
O ! take me to yon sunny isle, . . . 227 
O come to the wine bond, . . . . 23 1 
One song, and since it is the last, . . . 250 
Pity the lads that are free, ... 20 
She's awa', she's awa', I lo'e dear, . . .72 
Scots wha hae the duties paid, . . . Ill 
Success to all sailors who wend o'er the ocean, . . 238 



INDEX TO SONGS. 347 

PAGE 

The summer comes, but not in joy, . . 3 

The harp of Scotia dear, .... 5 

The simmer sun now blinks again, . . . 11 

'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, . . .25 

The dancing wine, the dancing wine, . . 40 

The mirth's left the glen, and the music the green, . 44 

The hour is come, my Mary dear, ... 47 

The gallant bark now quits the strand, . . 56 
They will come ! they will come ! the bright flowers, . 65 

Thou weary morn, when wilt thou dawn, . . 97 

There's pleasure when the morning sun, . . 99 

The trump of war hath ceased to blow, . .107 

'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view, . 113 

The boatie's rowing ower the deep, . . .116 

'T was not the song, 'twas not the dance, . . 133 

Tenting sheep by muir and glen, . . . 142 

The saft simmer e'enin' is gliding awa', . . 148 

The mavis sings on Mary's bower, . . .154 

The bright sun o' simmer but lately was shining, . 159 

The sun behind yon mountain, . . .185 

The poets, what fools they're to deave us, • . 187 

The grave it holds my fairest now, . . .214 

The charm of life hath passed away, . . 223 

The autumn winds are blawing, . . . 225 

The battle flag waves on the breeze, . . 233 

The glory of England shall rise, . . . 235 



348 



INDEX TO SONGS. 



PAGE 

The lily now blooms in its beauty, . r . 236 

The minstrel sleeps ! — the charm is o'er, . . 244 

Thy roses, England, must be fair, . . . 246 

The roses flower and fade unseen, . . .253 

Thou harp of song ! why sleep'st thou now, . 255 

The bard of Ettrick's silent now, . . . 259 

We've a bonnie wee flower, in a far countrie, . 27 

Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear, . . 29 

We cannot live our days again, . . . . 82 . 

What means a' this scorning, my lassie, . «. 93 

Write, write, tourist and traveller, . . . 146 

Why tarries my true love so long on sea, . . 206 

Why linger in a world of care, . . . 221 

Young Willie, the ploughman, has nae land nor siller, . 68 

Yestreen I slept an dreamed o' her, . . .181 

Ye rax me a bicker, and dunch me to sing « . 215 



INDEX TO POEMS AND BALLADS. 349 



INDEX TO POEMS AND BALLADS. 



PAGE 

The Midnight Review, .... 265 

Music, . . . ... . 269 

Stanzas to Mrs M .'s children, . . .271 

Winter song of the flowers, . . . 273 

Funeral dirge for William IV., . . . 276 

The death of the infants, .... 278 

It's oh ! gin I were young again, . .281 

To a sleeping infant, .... 284 

O ! the merry hunting days are gone, . . . 286 

The bard of song rose in the west, . . 288 

It was 'bout the Auld Hansel Mononday time, . .291 

There cam' to our village a stranger, . . 295 

O ! s tell me, gin thou wert a king, . . . *298 

Stanzas written in Miss — 's album, . . 301 

What's in a name, ..... 303 
Stanzas written among the ruins of a village church, 305 

Paraphrase upon Isaiah, chap, xxxv., . . . 308 

Ezekiel's vision, . <, . >. „ V J 1 J 



350 INDEX TO POEMS AND BALLADS. 

PAGE 

Song of peace, ..... 315 

The poor man's grave, . . . . 318 

" There is much between the cup and the lip," . .321 

The pseudo author, .... 324 

Inscription for an album, . . . .329 

Stanzas to autumn, ... 331 

Stanzas to Julia, ..... 333 

Hymn to the setting sun, .... 335 

The poet's inheritance, .... 337 

Ode written for the Shakspeare Club of Scotland, . 340 



FINIS. 



EDINBURGH PRINTING COMPANY, 

12, St David Street. 



APPENDIX. 



LINES WKITTEN IN RESTALRIG 
CHURCH YARD. 

(October 8, 1848.) 

Remote, romantic, solitary spot, 

Where sleep the dead — removed, but not forgot ! 

Where the loved ashes of the lost ones lie, 

Tears o'er their grave — their memory a sigh ! 

A father's worth, although not known to fame ; 

And what a magic in a mother's name ; — 

The harebell lifts its humble head in spring, 

When gaily o'er the young flowers song-birds sing, 

While Summer's glories in their beauty wave, 

But faded leaves become the silent grave ! 

'Tis Autumn now ! — and short the sun's bright 

beams — 
Sad leaves fall thick — an epitaph each seems, 



352 APPENDIX. 

In colours bright' ning, or in tint that dies, 
Each o'er its turf-clad grave proclaims — tc Here lies 
A child, to better lands thus early gone, 
Before, perhaps, the evil years come on ; 
A parent gathered to his last abode, 
Though dust be here, the spirit 's up to God ! 
A brother, sister, sleeping thus below, 
While round their ' narrow house' the mourners go ! 
An honoured patron, or a loving friend, 
This is their resting place — this is their end ! " 
How calm the churchyard on this solemn day, 
Silence secure, and busy world away, 
Unless half broken by the Sabbath bell, 
Whose tones no echo from the stillness tell. 
Shades of the dead ! in melancholy bloom 
Around you still some flowers take from your gloom, 
To show that though Death's Winter reigneth here, 
Hope's Spring shall bloom when Joy's eterne is near : 
What time, or late or soon, when life's round 's o'er, 
And I must walk this waking world no more, 
Here let me lie — this be my place of rest, 
Where sleep the weary, and repose the blest ! 



APPENDIX. 353 



SONG. 



Tune—" The Brier Bush" 



Oh ! weel I mind the days, by our ain burn side, 
When we clam the sunny braes, by our ain burn side, 

When flowers were blooming fair, 

And we wandered free o' care, 
For happy hearts were there, by our ain burn side ! 

Oh ! blithe was ilka sang, by our ain burn side, 
Nor langest day seemed lang, by our ain burn side, 

When we decked our woodland queen 

In the rashy chaplet green, 
And gay she looked, I ween, by our ain burn side. 

But the bloom hath left the flower, by our ain burn 

side, 
And gath'ring tempests low'r, by our ain burn side. 

The woods — no longer green — 

Brave the wintry blasts sae keen, 
And their withered leaves are seen by our ain burn 

side. 



354 APPENDIX. 

And the little band is gane frae our ain burn side, 
To meet, ah ! ne'er again, by our ain burn side, 
And the winter of the year 
Suits the heart both lone and sere, 
For the happy ne'er appear by our ain burn side ! 



THE DREDGING SONG. 

(Nothing in the romance of music can be finer than to listen from 
the beach, on these fine autumnal mornings, to the song' of the New- 
haven fishermen plying the oar and hauling the oyster dredge.) 

Hurrah ! for the oyster-dredging song, 

Ye pilgrims of the deep ; 
The autumn winds are fresh and strong, 

Why, then, your moorings keep ? 
The morning mists fast clear away — 

Night's reign of darkness o'er — 
Up sail ! up sail ! 'twill soon be day, 

Then leave the slumb'ring shore. 

The ocean wand'rers court the gale 

Which roars from sea to sky ; 
But we who raise the tiny sail, 

The active oar must ply ! 



APPENDIX. 355 

With early breeze we sweep the seas, 

With steady stroke and slow ; 
The sea-birds high above us fly, 

And the oyster sleeps below ! 

There 's glory in the golden field, 

When the sickle glances bright ; 
But not like the joys the waters yield, 

When their treasures come to light ! 
Our hands were made for the bulky wave, 

Our hearts are firm and strong ; 
And we launch our bark — be it light or dark — 

Hurrah for the dredging song ! 



LINES ON HEARING THE GREAT 
ORGAN AT HAARLEM. 

(August 5, 1849.) 

Vast fount of sound— whence is thy power ? 

iEolus breathes in thee, 
In thunder bursts, or swelling low 

In softest melody ! 



356 APPENDIX. 

What time thou wak'st thy voice, we think 

The whirlwind blast is come, 
Joined by a thousand trumpets loud, 

Each with its rolling drum ! 

As flame wakes flame when cities burn, 
Far-spreading, wide, and strong, 

So when thou speak'st the air becomes 
One living sheet of song ! 

Thy notes are notes of joy ! and now 

They tell of deepest woe ; 
Alternate given, as frail man finds, 

In this sad world below ! 

Were echo dead, and song no more, 
Nor mirth nor mournful strain, 

Fresh from her caves thou would'st awake 
The trembling tones again ! 

Exhaustless is thy power ! thy might 

No diminution knows ; 
As much of song remains, though now 

Thou slumb'rest in repose ! 



APPENDIX. 357 



'Tis silence all ! as is the grave 
Where fond ones claim a tear, 

They are not dead — they only sleep 
As music sleepeth here ! 



THE LAND OF BUKNS. 

INSCRIBED TO DAVID AULD, ESQ., DOONBRAE COTTAGE, AYR. 

This is the land of Burns ! — here song 
Poured forth its tide of purest joy, 

'Mong woody braes, in gushes strong 
And music's melting ecstacy ! 

Here nature, robed in fairest sheen, 
Gives out her flowers, in beauty rare ; 

With woodlands waving darkly green, 
Along the bonnie banks of Ayr ! 

And Doon, loved fairy-haunted stream, 
Sings sweetly as it flows along, 

(Fit music for a Poet's dream !) 
As conscious of the Poet's song ! 



358 APPENDIX. 

How long it flowed by bank and bower. 

Unseen, unsung, unknown by all, 
'Till grasped by Burns' s magic power, 

As winter chains the waterfall ! 

Roll on, fair stream ! in gentle wave, 
Singing soft music, to the sea ; 

Thy song, the praise of him who gave 
To thee thine immortality ! 



LINES UPON A MOTHER'S DEATH. 

Weep not for her ! — ye mourning throng, 
Nor let the bosom heave a sigh ; 

Rather awake the joyful song : 

This day a saint hath reached the sky ! 

A spirit pure hath passed away 

From earth to heaven — from night to day* 

Weep not for her ! — no melting tears 
Need fall, though thus unbid they flow ; 

Full in the given round of years, 
She's parted from a world of woe ! 

A world where sin and death hold reign, 

Whose touch she ne'er shall taste again. 



APPENDIX. 359 

Weep not for her ! — if joy is given 

For true repentant sinners won ; 
How much more joy is felt in heaven 

For one who always loved the Son ? 
On earth his cross was her renown ; — 
In heaven, behold ! she wears the crow r n. 

Weep nor for her ! — the journey 's o'er ; 

Though sometimes weary was the way, 
With troubles oft and trials sore, 

Still the good Shepherd was her stay. 
His word, his law, was her command, — 
His rod, his staff, was in her hand. 

Weep not for her ! — darkness and death 
May claim the mortal frame of clay, 

And friends may seek the silent path 
{That leads to homes shut out from day ! 

But whom ye mourn, — she worships now 

Where kings, and priests, and angels bow ! 

Weep not for her ! — a chosen band 
Bid her high welcome to that shore, 

Whose waters wash the better land, 

Where sin and sorrow meet no more ; — 



360 



APPENDIX. 



Where the pure spirit now is free, — 
Where care and weeping may not be. 

Weep not for her ! — the seraph's song, 

" Worthy the Lamb, that once was slain/' 

Is shouted heaven's high courts among : 
And one more voice now swells the strain. 

Take comfort, children, do not weep, 

She did not die, but fell asleep. 



DIEGE 

TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN WILSON, THE VOCALIST. 

Far on a foreign shore the minstrel sleeps, 
His harp on willow branches all unstrung, 

Save when the breeze across it trembling sweeps, 
Faint echoes 'wak'ning of the strains he sung ! 



Not on the banks of Tweed's fair silver stream, 
Nor in some nook he rests on Fortha's shore, 

His u narrow house " 'mid strangers — soft his dream ! 
His dirge the Niagara's troubled roar ! 



APPENDIX. 361 

Who now shall swell thy songs, old Scotia dear ? 

The "Ewe-bughts, Marion/' "Gowansintheglen," 
" Farewell, Lochaber ! " or the " Parting Tear," 

" Up? gallants, up ! we'll a' be Charlie's men ! " 

A wee bird chirping cam' to our ha' door, 
Across the wide and wild Atlantic main, 

Sad was its song — " The voice is heard no more, 
That, dying, hath not left its like again ! " 

The Bruce's charge — " Scots who with Wallace 

. bled," 

Or, " Bonny Tibby, I ha'e seen the day," 
" My love is like the rose, all blushing red," 

Or, " Forest Flowers a' weeded are away ! " 

If kindred spirits meet in better lands, 

A Ramsay, Ferguson, and Burns are there, 

To give him welcome with outstretched hands, 
Who of their fame divided half the share ! 

And thou, great Minstrel of the mighty north, 
Thy laurels spreading as wide-spread thy song, 

Wilt bid a vocal brother thus come forth, 

Who poured thy lays our woods and wilds among ! 



362 APPENDIX. 

And like the fabled bird that dying sings, 
In sweetest melody that singing dies, 

So Wilson, ere he spread his up-borne wings, 
Gave out his sw r eetest strains 'neath foreign skies ! 

The broom shall wave on Cowden's hills and plains, 
The heather bloom on uplands far and free, 

The song-birds wake again their mellow strains 
What time that bud and blossom crown the tree. 

The mountains shall give forth their torrents strong, 
These to the sea shall fall in many a river, 

But Wilson ! power and light of Scottish song, 
Thy voice is hushed — to wake again, oh, never ! 



THE WITHERED ROSE. 

ON FINDING ONE IN THE AUTHOR'S COPY OF DANTE. 

The rose lies withered, once so fair— 
The rose that Mary gave to me 

In years gone by, when, free of care, 
We met on Roslin's flowery lea. 



APPENDIX. 363 

Some fragrance yet its leaves retain, 
Some ling'ring tints of beauties o'er ; 

As in my heart past joys remain — 
Long withered now — of her no more ! 

Too pure to mingle in life's stream. 
Too bright for earth's oft clouded sky, 

She left us ere the sunny dream 

Had shown 'twas one of briefest joy ! 

Dante ! thy love to Beatrice, 

Than mine to Mary not more strong, 

Though thou hast placed in lasting bliss 
Thy lost one in thy lofty song. 

Lone withered rose ! I'll keep thee still ; 

Thee no rude hand shall take away ; 
And o'er thee shall my bosom thrill, 

Though thus thou restest in decay. 

Young springs shall come, and summers warm 
Shall wake the flow'rets of the year ; 

But no fresh flower shall raise a charm, 
Like thou, poor rose, that sleepest here ! 



364 APPENDIX. 



SONG. 



Eliza ! fairest, dearest treasure, 

Hear my vows and list my prayer, 
In thy presence there 's a pleasure, — 

And my heart— thou'rt circled there. 
When the moonbeams softly falling, 

Kiss the lake or flowery lea, 
Echo fast on echo calling, 

Dearest then art thou to me ! 

When the winds are gently blowing, 

And the morn in smiles appears 
With the sun all brightly glowing, 

Drying up fair nature's tears ! 
When the streams from purest fountains 

In music murmur to the sea, 
Greenwoods waving on the mountains, 

Dearest then art thou to me ! 

Then Eliza, while for ever 

Thou shalt hold my heart in sway, 
Let not fate nor fortune sever 

Love that ne'er shall know decay. 



APPENDIX. 365 



Years shall flow in purest gladness, 
Days shall pass in happy glee, 

Joy shall banish care and sadness, 
Eliza ! when I'm loved by thee. 



A VOICE FROM THE HERMITAGE. 

Give welcome ! give welcome ! 

The spring comes again, — 
Plough up the red land, 

And throw in the grain ! 

Winter, — its long night 

Hath now passed away, 
And spring-time, all fresh'ning, 

Now bursts into day ! 

Young flower and song bird 

Strive to recall 
The last days of sunshine, 

And joy over all. 



366 APPENDIX. 

Man, high, immortal, 
Should join in the strain, 

That glad verdant spring-time 
Awaketh again. 

Snow-storms have melted, 
Ice-streams are free, 

Sweetly they flow on 
In loved melody. 

Woods, tempest-shaken, 
Awake from their gloom, 

And, in their spring vestments, 
Now bud into bloom. 

Glory advances 

The sere leaves among, 

And waits for the echoes 
Of fast-coming song. 

Then welcome ! O, welcome ! 

The spring comes again ; 
Plough up the red land, 

And throw in the grain ! 



APPENDIX. 367 



TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 

Loved image fair, of one I love, 

A picture prized art thou by me ! 
One feeling only doth me move — 

Affection — when I look on thee ! 
And though the tints of eve are told 

In gathering shades around thee hung, 
Still in thy smile I yet behold 

The face remembered once as young ! 

Not lost the rose, though fled its bloom, 

The fragrance of the flower 's the same ; 
And Winter, when it comes in gloom, 

Takes nought from Summer but the name ! 
So those far travelled on life's day, 

To them our warmest wishes spring ; 
Like ivy when the walls decay, 

The closer round them we shall cling ! 

Loved copy of a dearer still, 

Fair hands have fashioned thee, and thou 
Dost show the artist's subtile skill, 

The placid face, and lofty brow ! 



368 APPENDIX. 

A mother's love ! a mother's care ! 

If aught of earthly fame be mine, 
'Tis thou that fame with me must share — 

One half these honours they are thine ! 

My mother ! — in that honoured name, 

A thousand swellings fill my heart, 
To mark her worth, and walk the same, 

The upright and the noble part ! 
Not wealth, perhaps, nor honours riven 

From some remote or ruthful tie, — 
But to her children she hath given, 

What wealth and honours will not buy ! 

Then, image of a mother dear, 

Long may'st thou be the transcript still, 
Whilst she the living copy, here 

Mak'st thou the second in our will. 
The earth shall give no more of green — 

The sun no more shall gild the sea — 
Stars shun the night — when I, I ween, 

My mother, shall not think of thee ! 



APPENDIX. 369 

SONG. 

Set to Music by Peter M*Leod, Esq." 

Come hame, lassie, come hame, 

Come hame, lassie, come hame, 
Come hame o'er the sea, to your country and me, — 

Oh ! come, my dear lassie, come hame ! 

Bleak winter it took you awa', 

A wearyfu' absence to me, 
But winter is past, wi' its cauld sleety blast, 

And simmer now glints on the lea ! 

Come hame, &c. 

They talk o' their fair foreign maids, 

But their beauty, nae doubt, ye wad shame ; 

Yet trust me, my dear, whaure'er you appear, 
O, I think you look aye best at hame ! 

Come hame, &c. 

I've strayed w T haur we aft used to stray, 

By woodland and saft singing burn, 
I've counted ilk hour, and I've watched ilka flower, 

Till simmer would bid you return ! 

Come hame, &c. 



370 APPENDIX. 

I'll shelter ye in a wee bower, 

A' safe frae the wind and the rain — 

And joy then to me, in perfection shall be, 
For then my dear lassie's my ain ! 

Come hame, lassie, come hame, 

Come hame, lassie, come hame, 
Come hame o'er the sea, to your country and me 
O, come, my dear lassie, come hame ! 



ODE TO WINTER. 

Dread winter, thou com'st in thy rage, 
Thy harbinger whirlwind appears ; 

Thou art old, but not weak in thine age, 
Nor art thou bowed down with thine years. 

From whence is thy power, mighty king ? 

Whence earnest ? and where dost thou stay 
In the summer and bright budding spring, 

Whose flowers thou hast withered away ? 



APPENDIX. 371 

Thou raisest the winds in the sky, 
Thou wakest the storms on the deep, 

The navies which sink 'neath thine eye 
Never maketh that stern eye to weep. 

I'm sad when I think of thee still, 

For thy white locks are covered with sleet, 

Around thee the wind bloweth chill, 
The cold drifting snow 's at thy feet. 

Why wreak' st thou thy vengeance on man ? 

Why wage so unequal a strife ? 
Dost not know that his life is a span ? 

In that span is the winter of life ! 



SONG. 



The mem'ry of the past 
Comes like a sunny ray — 

A spell that fain would last, 
A dream that long would stay. 



372 APPENDIX. 

The vision bright and fair. 
Appears in hues of spring. 

Or decked in garlands rare, 

When summer's song-birds sing, 

Yet soon it fades and dies, 
For who would dote or dwell 

On early hopes and joys, 

That lang have ta'en farewell. 

When youthful prime is flown, 
Its freshness and its flowers, 

In music's mournful tone, 

Sing — " Farewell, happy hours ! " 



A SABBATH AMONG THE MOOKLANDS. 

INSCRIBED TO HIS FRIEND THE REV. MR CRUICKSHANK, MINISTER OF 
MANOR PARISH, PEEBLESSHIRE. 

The Sabbath bell ! how glad the sound, 

That calls from earthly care, 
To worship in the solemn place — 

The holy house of prayer ! 



APPENDIX. 373 

But chiefly in the moorland wild, 

In some sequestered dell, 
Far from the stirring haunts of men, 

I love the Sabbath beli ! 

'Twas morn — a winter Sabbath morn, — 

With deep and drifting snow, 
When to the house of Grod the bands 

With joyful hearts did go. 
O'er moor and mountain, wood and wild, 

They bent their lonely way, 
To spend within its sacred courts, 

A holy, happy day ! 

The aged — reverend in their age — 

Ah ! well the path they knew — 
Came forth, all conscious that on earth 

Their Sabbaths would be few ! 
Weep not ! ye aged ones, nor mourn 

In this your house of prayer ; 
In heaven, a long, long Sabbath is, 

And ye are welcome there ! 

The young, whom care had blighted not, 
Nor sorrow bended low, 



374 APPENDIX. 

Assembled where their fathers' sires 

Had worshipped long ago. 
Nor pomp, nor state, nor wealth, nor rank, 

Nor high distinctions given, — 
They seemed a family met on earth, 

Before their God in heaven ! 

"Praise ye the Lord- with joyful hearts, 

And glad hosannahs sing, 
This is God's house, and this his day — 

Ye people praise your King ! " 

All with one voice obey the call, 
One heart the notes prolong, 

And ne'er from high cathedral choir 
Burst forth a nobler song ! 

Like waters, o'er their pebbly bed, 

That murmur as they flow- 
So swelled this song — so dear to those 

That Scotia's Sabbaths know. 
And when their pastor, father, friend, 

Poured forth his soul in prayer, 
It seemed as if the blessings craved 

Showered down in mercy there ! 



APPENDIX. 375 

Another heavenly song now sung, 

Another closing prayer ; 
And now the band of worshippers 

For happy homes prepare ! 
If heaven has bliss — oh ! earth has peace. 

When those who brothers be, 
Walk in that love of Him who made 

Mankind as brothers free ! 



SONG. 



Langsyne the flow 'rets bloomed aye fair, 

And a' that met the view ; 
The glens and bonnie woodlands wild, 

Seemed clad in beauty too ! 
And blithe was ilka birdie's sang, 

Whatever strain was sung : 
Oh, a' on earth was loveliness 

In the days when we were young ! 

Nought then did bode o' grief or care, 
Nor sorrow e'er was dreamed ; 



376 APPENDIX. 

But a' things shone wi' purest joy, 
Hk' face wi' pleasure beamed. 

On ilka tree, like Eden's bower, 
The fairest fruit was hung, — 

Oh, sic a world o' happiness 

In the days when we were young ! 

The maidens walked in virgin pride, 

A' lovely, fair to see — 
The gathered treasures o' their heart, 

Seemed glancing in their ee ! 
And we, their willing slaves, around 

Their budding beauties clung, — 
Oh, then sic joys and tender ties 

In the days when we were young. 

But age, life's winter, hastens on, 

And with relentless sway, 
The hopes, the joys o' sunny youth, 

Takes all our dreams away ! 
Fond loves all lost, and friendships dead, 

And hearts wi' sorrow wrung — 
These now we hold for what we mourn 

In the days when we were young. 



APPENDIX. 377 



SONG. 



My own, ray true loved Marion ! 

No wreath for thee I'll bring ; 
No summer gathered roses fair, 

Nor snow-drops of the spring ! 
O ! these would quickly fade — for soon 

The brightest flowers depart ; 
A wreath more lasting I will give — 

A garland of the heart ! 

My own, my true loved Marion ! 

Thy morn of life was gay, 
Like to a stream that gently flows 

Along its lonely way ! 
And now, when in thy pride of noon 

I see thee blooming fair, 
Be peace and joy still o'er thy path, 

And sunshine ever there ! 

My own, my gentle Marion ! 

Though 'tis a world of woe, 
There 's many a golden tint that falls 

To gild the road we go ! 



378 APPENDIX. 

And in this chequered vale to me, 

A light hath round me shone, 
Since thou cam'st from thine highland home, 

In days long past and gone ! 

My own, my time loved Marion ! 

Cold, cold, this heart shall be, 
When I shall cease to love thee still, 

To cheer and cherish thee ! 
Like ivy round the withered oak, 

Though all things else decay, 
My love for thee shall still be green, 

And will not fade away ! 



BIKTH-DAY KECOLLECTIONS. 

Oh ! for the songs of other years, 

When life and joy were young, 
When nought but gladsome tales were told, 

Or mirthful strains were sung ! 
When birth-day " healths " with welcome high, 

Were given with cheerful brow ! 
Our cups, alas ! in silence pass — 

We've nought but " memories " now ! 



APPENDIX. 379 

And round our little social homes 

Was seen that watchful eye — 
One who, though knit to us on earth, 

Yet raised our hopes on high ! 
She who in childhood's helpless days, 

Around our couch did bow : 
A mother's name no more gives fame — 

We've nought but " memories " now ! 

Youth's days are fled, and in their stead 

Came sorrow, grief, and tears ; 
And for the sunny morns of song 

We number heavy years ! 
Fond friends are gone, and we alone 

Must 'neath afflictions bow : 
Time was when we gave happy healths — 

We've nought but " memories " now ! 



SONG. 



I have dreamed of thee in the silent night, 
When Nature was hushed in repose ; 

I have thought of thee when the morning light 
O'er a slumbering world arose. 



380 APPENDIX. 

I have loved thee when summer's golden beams 

Fell soft on thy beautiful brow. 
But ne'er in my waking or midnight dreams, 

More dear than I love thee now ! 

I have wandered with thee by the valley green, 

Where streamlets meandering flow — 
For where is thy image, I fancy the scene, 

The sweetest to mortals below ! 
More softly the songsters pour forth their lay, 

The flowers at thy fair presence bow : 
O, I've loved thee by night, and I've loved thee by 
day, 

But never more dearly than now ! 

Then since I have loved thee, gentle one, 

O, say that I'm loved by thee ; 
And Time, as he travels his swift journey on, 

Shall make thee more lovely to me. 
Each hour that I gaze on thy fair beaming eyes, 

Or look on thy placid brow, 
Emotions shall waken, and joys shall arise, 

As tender and true as they're now ! 



APPENDIX. 381 



SONG. 

THE GERMAN STUDENTS RETURN. 

The Ehine ! the Rhine ! beloved river, 
We have traversed many strand, 

Now returning, we shall never 
Leave again our fatherland ! 

The Ehine ! the Ehine ! 

Morning mists, how fast they're clearing 

From the lofty Drachenfells, 
While our barque is steady nearing 

To the homes where beauty dwells ! 

The Ehine ! the Ehine ! 

Hark ! the hunter's horn is sounding, 
Back to cave the echoes bring, 

While our hearts with joy are bounding, 
And the song of home we sing ! 

The Ehine ! the Ehine ! 



382 APPENDIX. 

See the young vines how they're creeping, 
High o'er mountain peaks they grow, 

While the sunbeams softly sleeping, 
In the fairy dells below ! 

The Ehine ! the Rhine ! 

Ancient keep and castle hoary, 
How we welcome thee once more ! 

Where with wassail, wine, and story, 
Passed the merry days of yore ! 

The Ehine ! the Rhine ! 

Flow, thou bright, romantic river, 

In thy beauty ever flow, 
And our steps shall linger ever, 

Where the rocky vine trees grow. 

The Rhine ! the Rhine ! 



FINIS. 



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